


Call a Thing by its Name

by WithThisShield



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Recovery, Saarebas, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, The Qun (Dragon Age), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithThisShield/pseuds/WithThisShield
Summary: Freshly exiled, the Iron Bull leaves the Storm Coast with his Chargers plus one: a human saarebas who was the lone survivor of the dreadnought explosion.Cullen knows his attraction to the beautiful collared mage is sick and wrong. But he may have to do the unthinkable to protect the saarebas from a family that wants him back for all the wrong reasons.Saarebas has a new arvaarad (called “the Iron Bull”) and a new karataam (called “the Inquisition”), which should be comforting, except he doesn’t understand why everyone keeps trying to trick him into breaking the rules… or why they keep calling him “Dorian.”
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 111
Kudos: 206





	1. The Storm Coast

_“To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world. To call a thing falsely is to put out one's own eyes.” —the Qun_

“Blow the damn horn, Bull,” Cadash ordered, her voice tight and furious.

A part of him watched in silent horror as his own arm raised to signal the retreat. But there was no option here that _didn’t_ involve dying a little inside. So he let Cadash make the choice he might not have had the courage to make on his own.

His boys would be safe. He clung to that to keep himself afloat as the dreadnought exploded, as his fate was severed from the only anchor he’d ever known.

Gatt’s voice shook with grief and betrayal. “All these years, Hissrad, and you throw away all that you are. For what—for this? For _them?_ ”

“You have got to be shitting me,” Cadash spat, her face livid. “I’m trying to stop the _end of the world_ and you came down here to play loyalty games? You honestly thought I’d choose a boatload of strangers who were probably already planning to stab me in the back over _my own people?_ ”

Gatt pulled himself together, stood up straight as he turned to face the Inquisitor. “There will be no alliance between our peoples. Nor will you be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your Tal-Vashoth ally.”

“Good! Excellent! Fuck the Qun! You can tell your superiors not to contact us again until they’re ready to pull their heads out of their asses and actually take this shit seriously. I have an ancient, immortal wannabe-god to kill—I don’t have time for your petty machinations.”

Even through his shock, the Iron Bull had to appreciate just how _sharp_ Cadash was. Yeah, she came off brazen and crass, but there was no pulling one over on her—she could smell manipulative nugshit from a mile away. Sure, Bull had worried that something seemed off going into this mission, but he’d never shared his trepidation with her. Cadash was just _that good_ at reading situations. Guess that’s why they gave her the Quizzy Sword, as Sera liked to call it.

The Iron Bull carefully did not watch for Gatt’s reaction. If his old friend had walking him into this trap _knowing_ full-well it was a trap… well, he didn’t want to know. There’s only so many times a guy can stand to get punched in the soul in one day.

Gatt didn’t linger long after that, but Cadash’s team waited on the overlook for the Chargers to regroup and join them. Varric didn’t seem to know what to say, for once, which under other circumstances would’ve been funny.

With heartfelt sincerity, Cassandra declared, “You’ve chosen well. I would not trade the Chargers for any alliance.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cass,” said Cadash. “But like… they were definitely gonna stab us in the back sooner or later, so… no great loss.”

The Chargers approached the rendezvous point in a clamor of banging armor and good-natured hollering, all stealth forgotten now that the battle was past. Krem was unusually quiet; trust his lieutenant to figure out what an exploded dreadnought meant for the Iron Bull, while the rest of them were still boisterously, blissfully ignorant. Bull wanted to preserve this moment like a pressed flower, before his boys found out the price he’d paid to keep them alive.

Krem came straight to him to give the status report: a few minor injuries, but no fatalities. His lieutenant asked no questions—just eyed him, cuffed him on the arm, and left him to ruminate. Varric and Cadash were loudly welcoming back the rest of the Chargers, subtly keeping them occupied to give Bull some space. He watched as Cadash slung her arm over Rocky’s neck and dug knuckles into his head.

They would have died. They would have all died for the Iron Bull—a fiction he’d constructed in service to the Qun. Sure, he _enjoyed_ this persona, he like playing this role more than any other, but the fact that the Iron Bull was his favorite mask didn’t make it any less of a mask, at the end of the day. His boys would have died for a person who wasn’t even _real_.

And now the face beneath the mask was gone, and all he had left was the lie.

“Hey, Chief!” Krem stood at the edge of the overlook, his spyglass held to his eye. “Is your Qun buddy gone?”

“Yeah, Krem. Yeah.” He paused. “Why?”

“Cuz we got a problem.”

Bull exhaled through his nose, then forced his feet to start moving. A problem could be good; a problem would be something to focus on, besides the existential dread pooling in his gut.

“Whaddya got?” he said, coming up next to Krem at the overlook.

Krem just passed him the spyglass and pointed at a dark shape down on the beach below them. A small figure knelt in the sand—chains, manacles, collar, heavy brass mask. Either he was misjudging the perspective, or it was a child, or… nope, no horns, not even the stumps of horns. A hornless adolescent saarebas?

Bull’s brain refused to accept the other explanation. The Qun didn’t make humans into saarebas. There were no viddathari mages, not ever. So how could he be _staring at one_ right now through Krem’s spyglass?

******

Saarebas’s nostrils flared as he stepped out onto the deck of the dreadnought, following close on Arvaarad’s heels. Cold air hit his lungs, carrying the salt-scent of the sea. Shorebirds cried out as they passed overhead. The cannons fired with such force he could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots.

He had no idea what was happening, but he felt placid. Arvaarad would tell him when it was time to act. He was an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

With a flick of the control rod, his dampening collar deactivated, and the serene emptiness inside him flooded with a dizzying surge of magic. “Straight ahead,” Arvaarad barked. “And… dispel!”

Saarebas was aimed and fired like a cannon, the spell called up and released even before he’d processed exactly what he was dispelling. His brass mask cut off all peripheral vision and had a latticework of metal over the eyes, so he caught only a vague, fractured impression of a fireball wuffing out.

“Again, dispel! Dispel!” Arvaarad sounded frustrated, which made Saarebas’s blood sing with anxiety, but he tried his best to focus. “Forward, maximum range: horror.”

Saarebas extended his reach as far as he could push and blanketed the shore with a horror spell. But while he was focused on the attack, a fireball crashed into the deck and suddenly everything was _chaos_ —smoke and screaming and where was Arvaarad? He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe…

It was instinct; it wasn’t even a sanctioned spell. Without meaning to, Saarebas fade-stepped off the burning dreadnought and onto the shore. He stumbled forward as his feet landed in sand, confused and disoriented—how had he done such a thing? Arvaarad would need to discipline him.

A concussive shockwave knocked him flat on the sand, driving the air from his lungs, his ears ringing from a blast like a hundred barrels of gaatlok put together. Saarebas shook his head, trying to clear the white noise from his hearing. With his arms chained behind his back, he had to struggle just to sit up. What was happening? Where was Arvaarad? He needed to get back to the Karataam, but how, when he could barely see and didn’t know which direction to go?

Anxiety spiked in his chest, worse than it had in a long time. How could he possibly know what to do without Arvaarad? He decided he would wait—yes, he would kneel patiently here like a good thing, and wait for Arvaarad to come find him. Perhaps this was a test of his obedience. Saarebas would prove how perfectly obedient he was.

He settled his weight back on his heels and tried to quiet his mind. The magic still writhed around inside him, thrumming like a second heartbeat, making it impossible to find that calm state of emptiness he ought to have while doing nothing. Unable to shake his nervousness, he worried his teeth against the thick thread inside his lips—a habit that Arvaarad did not like, but he couldn’t help it, now.

What if this _wasn’t_ a test? What if no one came?

Saarebas knelt, and waited. How long could he be apart before the isolation corrupted him? Better to end one’s own life than give in to corruption, so the Qun demands. But if Arvaarad never found him, how was he to know what to do? Saarebas’s thoughts raced. Food and water came only from Arvaarad. If he sat still, either Arvaarad would find him, or he would die—fulfilling the mandates of the Qun one way or the other.

Saarebas began to shiver. The sand was damp, leaching heat from his shins, and the wind coming off the water cut right through the sleeveless tunic Arvaarad had dress him in. Perhaps the cold would kill him before the thirst; he’d never felt such miserable cold.

A sound. Repetitive. Getting closer? _Footsteps_.

Saarebas swung his head around, trying to see through the metal latticework that covered the eye-holes of his heavy mask. Feet—one set large, one set small. He craned his neck; one quick glance up told him it was a male Qunari and a female elf, before he dropped his gaze to rest properly on the sand in front of his knees.

A low voice rumbled something in a language that held no meaning for him— _hey big guy how you doing there—_ sounds that washed past him like rolling waves. The elf said something too, but it wasn’t Arvaarad speaking, so there was no need to listen.

Large, gentle hands hooked under his arms and hauled him to his feet, and Saarebas felt a flash of panic. No, _no,_ he couldn’t do that! If he left this spot, how would Arvaarad find him? Saarebas wriggled from the Qunari’s grasp and thumped back down in the sand stubbornly. He was waiting. He was a good thing that waited for his Arvaarad.

The Qunari crouched down in front of him and rested a hand on his shoulder. No one save Arvaarad was supposed to touch him, but it felt… comforting. Familiar, almost. It confused him.

The man switched to Qunlat, and Saarebas decided he should probably listen even if it wasn’t his Arvaarad. “You were on the dreadnought, yeah? The ship exploded, kid. You’re the only survivor.”

A cold pit seemed to open up inside his stomach, and he shook harder. If Arvaarad was dead, then _Saarebas_ was dead. No, he did not fear death, he was not supposed to fear death—even when a tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed, _but all of this was to survive_. Saarebas was obedient. He bared his throat and waited for the killing blow.

“No! Vashedan, no. I just meant you don’t have to stay here. I will be your keeper now, do you understand? You still have value. You are not corrupted.”

The large gray hand moved to cup his face, and Saarebas leaned into the touch, relieved to have a new master. He made a small, pathetic noise in his throat, the kind of sound his old Arvaarad had enjoyed, but then immediately regretted it—he ought to be completely silent until he was sure what rules this new Arvaarad would expect him to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you to camp. Can you walk?”

This Arvaarad asked a lot of questions; he frowned behind his mask as the Qunari helped him stand. His feet were on fire with pins and needles from kneeling, but he would walk if he was told to walk.

“I was trained as Hissrad of the Ben-Hassrath,” the man said as he unfastened the chains that held Saarebas’s manacles together behind his back. “But now my role is _the Iron Bull_ of _the Inquisition_.” He used words in that other language, the one that slid off his mind instead of sticking. Oh, well. He could remember _Hissrad_ at least.

The viddathari elf stepped forward then, and draped a cloak about his shoulders, tying it closed in front. It felt pleasantly warm, but Saarebas was distracted by his unbound hands, not knowing what to do with them. They hung awkwardly at his sides as he followed behind Hissrad and the elf; after a few minutes of walking, he decided to clasp them behind his back as if he were still chained, and that was more comfortable.

A seed of doubt niggled at him. Was this right? Was this what the Qun wanted of him—to obey a hissrad instead of an arvaarad? Something felt off, but in the end, one core truth remained: he was a dangerous thing, and choices were not his to make.

He didn’t know how _not_ to follow.

******

As they crested the ridge and approached camp, Bull spotted Cadash impatiently pacing. Everyone else was setting up tents, cooking dinner, tending to minor wounds, but Cadash couldn’t settle with two of her people still out in the field. She met them with fists planted against her hips.

“Boss.” He gave her a nod. “This is our new mage.”

Cadash looked over the saarebas, a hint of incredulity in the arch of her brows. “Why didn’t you untie his hands?”

“I did,” said Bull. “He’s holding them like that.”

“Oh, _come on_. Varric’s too old for this shit.”

“Hey, now,” Varric protested from his seat near the campfire.

Bull sighed. “Dalish, can you get him settled at the fire?” The kid didn’t seem to respond to anything she said, but he was pliant enough with nonverbal instructions.

“Sure, Chief.” She rested a hand on the kid’s elbow and guided him on toward the warmth.

Once he was out of earshot, Cadash said, “Seriously, Bull—what the fuck are we supposed to do with him?”

“Look, I get that you’re not the biggest fan of mages…”

“I don’t have a thing against mages,” she interrupted. “It’s just that Viv and Solas both manage to drive me up the wall in their own special ways.”

Bull rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Be that as it may. I know Skyhold isn’t exactly a recovery ward for traumatized spellcasters, but… what else do ya want me to do here?”

Cadash ran her teeth over her bottom lip. “You feel responsible.”

He shrugged.

“Okay.” She nodded. “Okay. I guess it’s not any dumber than fetching some asshole’s runaway druffalo, so I’m in a glass house throwing stones here.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

“Solas fucking loves the Hinterlands, you know—I’m just saying, mages be crazy.”

Dalish appeared at Bull’s elbow, not batting an eye at the Inquisitor’s comment despite the fact that she must have overheard it. “I gave him a bowl of broth, but he won’t drink it.”

Bull looked past her. Sure enough, the saarebas was obediently holding the bowl she’d placed in his hands, but made no move to lift it to his mouth, the thick brass mask still covering his entire face. Bull heaved a sigh and went to take care of it.

“Need some help, kid?” He knelt beside the saarebas and gently plucked at the straps that secured the mask. “Let’s get this off.”

Saarebas exhaled sharply, almost a hiss, as Bull got his first clear look. The saarebas’s long black hair was plaited back, leaving his face entirely exposed in the absence of the mask. The kid was gorgeous—startlingly pale eyes, high cheekbones, aristocratic nose. A day or two worth of stubble flecked his jaw, though his Arvaarad clearly kept him clean-shaven. Lips stitched shut, the piercings long since healed. He looked… _eerily_ familiar, though Bull couldn’t quite put his finger on why—it wasn’t like he was in the habit of forgetting faces. He had extensive training in perfect recall, and this deja vu shit was gonna drive him nuts.

“Hey. Look at me,” he murmured in Qunlat.

Those gray eyes flicked to meet his gaze for a fraction of a second before they dropped again, unfocused. The kid was probably exhausted; now wasn’t the right time to push.

“Okay, let’s drink this now, huh?”

Bull took the bowl from his hands and raised it to his mouth. His lips were threaded with enough slack to allow him to slurp liquid through, and Bull did his best to reduce the indignity of the procedure, although it didn’t seem to embarrass the saarebas.

Seated on the other side of the fire, Varric finally spoke up. “I didn’t think the Qunari converted mages.”

“They don’t,” Bull agreed.

“So… what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, Varric.” A note of irritation _may_ have slipped into his tone. He paused the feeding process, absently wiped a dribble of broth from the kid’s chin with his thumb, thoughts churning. “Hey Krem?” he called.

Krem had been seated at the other campfire with the Chargers, apparently deep in his cups, but it took the lieutenant all of thirty seconds to scramble up and jog over, his eyes stone-cold sober. “Yeah, Chief?”

“Can you try some Tevene on him?”

Krem propped his hands on his hips unhappily. “You think he’s Tevinter?”

“Looks it, don’t he?”

Krem switched to Tevene and the saarebas jerked as if his voice were an electric shock, then went very still, obviously _listening_ in a way he didn’t seem to do at all when anyone spoke Common. The kid didn’t answer—of course he didn’t answer—but the words had _meant_ something to him. Bull’s heart sank.

Krem paced a few steps away, deeply riled at the kid’s reaction. “Shit, fuck, son of a nug-humping—” he cut himself off and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Okaaay…” said Varric. “You’re gonna have to translate that into Confused Freemarcher for me, cuz I’m not getting what’s so bad about a Tevinter who knows Tevene.”

Krem rubbed a hand down his face. “If you’re a soporatus, you learn Tevene in school, but for the most part soporati speak Common at home. Only an altus would be raised with Tevene as a first language.” He paused, and when the dwarf’s stare stayed blank, he added, “It means this kid is fucking _nobility_ , Varric—that’s what it means. We’ve just shipwrecked ourselves in the middle of a political shitstorm.”

Tiredly, Bull added, “The Imperium will demand his immediate return. But saarebas are trained to self-destruct if they get separated from their unit—probably, the only reason the kid’s still alive is he thinks I’m Qunari.”

“Yeah, I’m unfortunately familiar with what happens when they’re cut off.” Varric chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, as if debating whether to say more. “Met a saarebas in Kirkwall once. Nice guy, not a big talker. When he found out the Qun wouldn’t take him back, he set himself on fire and burned to death.”

The broth bowl now empty, Saarebas made a very small noise of distress.

Bull switched back to Qunlat. “What is it?”

After several seconds of hesitation, the kid made a grabbing gesture with his hand in the direction of his mask.

“Why don’t we get you settled in a tent to sleep, and you can have it back in the morning, okay?”

“Chief—” Krem protested, still hung up on the altus thing.

As he coaxed the saarebas to stand, Bull said, “Ain’t nuthin’ we can do about it tonight, Krem.”

He took the kid to his own tent, fully aware of what a bad idea it would be to leave him alone for the night. He pointed out his own bedroll and the spare one meant for Saarebas, then started a pile off to the side with the mask first, and then the chains from around his torso, and finally his boots. The manacles and control collar weren’t designed to be removed; there was nothing to be done until they got the kid back to Skyhold and sat him down at the tender mercies of Harritt and Dagna.

Saarebas let Bull manhandle him out of his sandy, damp clothes and into some borrowed sleepwear, and then he obediently knelt on his bedroll. But he did not lie down, and there was something expectant—almost petulantly expectant—in his posture.

Bull heaved a sigh. “Kid, I didn’t train as an arvaarad, so you have to try to tell me what you need.”

Hesitantly, he raised a hand and touched his control collar.

Bull felt a flare of hope that he was asking for the collar to be removed, except that explanation didn’t fit. “You can’t sleep ‘cause with access to your magic, you feel like you’re in battle mode.” A nod. “You want the suppression turned on.” Another nod, with more eagerness this time.

Of course, of _fucking_ course. Never mind that the kid’s control rod was _at the bottom of the sea_.

“Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

Bull left to find the Seeker, who seemed to be reserving judgement about the whole situation for now, but was at least willing to follow him. When he returned with Cassandra, the saarebas was kneeling in _exactly_ the same position, and it was yet another sign of how thrown Bull was that he hadn’t predicted how _stay there_ would be interpreted. Man, was he off his game.

Cassandra eyed the kid skeptically. “You’re certain this is what he wants?”

“It’s not a long-term solution, but it’ll let him get some sleep tonight.”

“Very well.” The Seeker nodded. She reached out a hand toward the saarebas and thoroughly purged his mana pool.

******

The Iron Bull woke at dawn to the sound of birds warbling in the trees near camp. For a single peaceful minute, he forgot—before it all came crashing back. Tal-va- _fucking_ -shoth. And, hilariously, somehow also an arvaarad. If gods were real, they were _assholes_.

His right foot was asleep, and suspiciously weighed down. Bull lifted his head to see Saarebas curled up, lying on Bull’s ankle like a fucking _dog_. It was too early for this shit.

The kid jerked awake and scuttled back to his own bedroll, ducking his head sheepishly, as if he’d been caught taking comfort he wasn’t allowed to have. Bull was too groggy and grumpy to argue; he could already tell this was going to be a day _full_ of disagreements about the meaning behind simple actions. He shook the sand out of the saarebas’s now-dry clothes and got him dressed, all the while mentally preparing himself for The Big Step.

“So,” Bull began in Qunlat. “You got some sleep. It’s morning. It’s… time to take the stitches out.”

The kid nodded, eyes widening a little. Bull blinked at him in surprise—he looked… _excited_. That wasn’t at all the reaction he’d expected.

“Okay, well… I thought you were gonna fuss, but fine by me if we’re on the same page for once. Sit and hold still.”

Saarebas sat with a definite air of satisfaction, which still confused Bull, but _whatever_. He knelt in front of the kid with his belt knife and very carefully cut the thread, gently pulling the pieces out through the piercings one at a time. The kid was breathing shallowly, hot breaths puffing over Bull’s fingers as he worked. Bull tugged out the last piece, and only then did he glance up and notice that Saarebas’s pupils were blown. With sickening immediacy, the kid lunged for Bull’s crotch, mouthing at his limp cock through the fabric of his pants.

Bull swallowed bile and held him away. What the fuck, _what the fuck_ —saarebas were never supposed to be used for _that._ The strict system of the Qun was supposed to prevent abuses, not provide a structure in which abuse could proliferate. How common was this? Did the Arishok know? How much of what Bull had been taught his whole life was pure hypocrisy?

While Bull’s thoughts spiraled, the kid had started shaking with fear. He snapped his attention back to where it should be. “Hey, hey,” he said soothingly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” After a moment of indecision, Bull sat back and pulled the kid into his lap. The saarebas went limp and pliant in his arms, letting himself be positioned like a doll, but the involuntary quivering took a while to stop. “You’re okay, no one’s going to hurt you.”

A clever human hand snuck between Bull’s legs and palmed his dick. Bull caught the kid’s arm and gently but firmly pulled it away.

“Eh, eh, none of that. That’s not your role, Saarebas, do you understand?”

Bull could tell from the tension in his shoulders that the kid really _didn’t_ —he didn’t understand at all, he probably even felt _rejected_ by Bull’s refusal to abuse him.

“Let’s see if we can find you something to eat, huh?” Bull said, hoping to distract him. “I dunno how much solid food you’ve been given, your jaw muscles might be kinda weak, but I bet we can find something not too tough for breakfast.”

The saarebas squirmed a little, confusion clouding his features, and in Bull’s mind it _clicked_ : the kid thought he wouldn’t be fed because he’d failed to pleasure Bull.

Koslun’s balls, what they must have done to him to make him like this… Bull’s heart clenched in his chest at the thought. He had trouble imagining how to even _begin_ removing this kind of conditioning.

Krem was right: they were _so fucked_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am trash, I'm starting another work in progress. I promise I'll still be updating Fair Exchange, though! This idea just wouldn't leave me alone this past weekend, so here it is.


	2. On the Road

Saarebas sat by the campfire with his bowl of porridge and tried to ignore the anxiety over not knowing _why_ he was being fed. He hadn’t done anything to warrant such indulgence. Was Hissrad simply not in the mood? Perhaps he found Saarebas disgusting. What would happen to him if Hissrad _never_ wanted him? No, this was wrong—a sword did not worry about how it was wielded. Asit tal-eb.

He chewed the oats more than strictly necessary because it felt nice to clench his jaw around something solid, even if it made the muscles on the sides of his head ache toward the end of the bowl. When he’d emptied it entirely, the blond elven viddathari came over to take his bowl, but then she refilled it and returned it to him.

Saarebas stared at it, dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to do. He was still hungry—he was _always_ still hungry—but he had eaten his share already. It was wrong to waste food. It was also wrong to eat more than one’s share. Had the viddathari made a mistake? Was Saarebas being tested? Perhaps the viddathari had been sent to trick him, and Hissrad was watching to see what he would do. But he didn’t _know_ what to do—both options were wrong, he was being set up for failure, he would be punished either way. Saarebas set the bowl on the ground in front of him and the mentally retreated so far into himself that he was barely breathing.

He was only distantly aware of large gray hands picking him up and carrying him back to the tent. He was set down on his feet and managed to stay standing mostly because his hand clutched at the leather strap of Hissrad’s shoulder harness.

“Hey, you back? You with me?” said Hissrad.

Saarebas blinked. After a pause, he nodded.

Hissrad’s hands ran up and down his bare arms, soothing. “What’s gonna help with this? What do you need?”

Tentatively, Saarebas patted his lips with his fingers.

Hissrad sighed. “No, kid. I’m not gonna sew your mouth shut again.”

What did that mean? Arvaarad _always_ threaded his lips closed after he’d eaten his reward. A spike of anxiety lanced through him, and he patted his mouth again, more insistently this time.

“Kid… I don’t have the right kind of string for that, even if I was willing to do it.”

Panic flaring in his chest, Saarebas patted his lower face hard enough to make a smacking sound. If his lips were unstitched all day long, how was he supposed to know when it was time to suck Hissrad’s cock? How could he earn his food if he didn’t _know_? Nothing made sense anymore—magic buzzed under his skin for no reason, his lips had no thread, there were tricks and traps everywhere… Saarebas felt like he was _drowning_ in uncertainty. He clamped his jaw shut, and his nostrils flared as his breathing turned fast and frantic.

Hissrad captured him in his arms, murmuring, “Shh, calm down, you’re okay.”

He wasn’t okay, nothing was okay! He kicked out angrily at Hissrad, which only made things worse, because he should be punished now but Hissrad wasn’t punishing him—the pain would make everything clear again, the pain would put him in his place, but his collar hung quiescent and useless around his neck. Saarebas was a good thing who knew the rules, he _did_ , but Hissrad wasn’t following the rules and he was so confused and he _hated_ Hissrad for playing these cruel games with him. He kicked and he pounded with his fists and he screamed in his throat, lips pressed tightly closed.

_Please just hurt me. Make it all make sense again—_ but Hissrad refused to hurt him. So he hurt himself, banged closed fists against his own temples, turned all that inner strife into something he could _feel._

Hissrad grabbed both of his forearms above the manacles with one hand and spun him around, then pulled him tight against that enormous gray body, his back to Hissrad’s front, the other arm like an iron bar across his chest. Saarebas yanked and writhed but he couldn’t move at all.

Hissrad’s voice was low and gentle, even as his grip was implacable. “Struggle is an illusion. Fall into the tide. Let it carry you.”

He couldn’t move. There was nothing he could do. Oh. _Oh, finally_. Saarebas relaxed and let his mind go blank, let all the thoughts and fears drain out of him like water through a sieve. That was better.

******

They left the camp on horseback. Hissrad instructed him to ride with the viddathari human called Krem (though what role a _Krem_ was, he didn’t know). He’d been allowed to wear his mask and his chains, though Hissrad insisted his hands stay unbound so he could hold onto Krem’s waist. _Unless you wanna fall off the damn horse,_ Hissrad had said, though Saarebas could tell it wasn’t a genuine offer.

“So… do you have an actual name, so we can stop calling you ‘the kid’?” Krem said in that strange language that wasn’t Qunlat, but still somehow managed to catch and stick in his mind like the tendrils of a thorny briar.

He was Saarebas. Surely even a viddathari should know that. Was this another trap?

“Oh, kaffas, do you…” Krem twisted to look over his shoulder, face blanched. “Did they take your tongue?”

Saarebas shook his head.

“So you _could_ talk, if you wanted to.”

Saarebas tilted his head to the side, not quite comprehending the question. He was a dangerous thing, he didn’t have _wants_. He couldn’t talk without an arvaarad’s instruction—it would be like expecting a sword to swing itself.

“That’s okay,” said Krem, filling the silence. “The Chargers got tons of stories, we love a good listener.”

Krem began to recount how he’d been cornered in a tavern by Vints, his former comrades, and this giant hulking Qunari stepped into the fray and saved his life. Listening to the krem speak felt very strange, almost vertiginous, like the language was a gaping pit he could unbalance and tip into. The words seemed to brush at something buried deep in the back of his skull.

The story itself was a little hard to follow because Krem kept using Hissrad’s other name, the one that didn’t want to stick in his mind. But Saarebas understood that Vints were the enemy, and that this was how Krem found his way to the wisdom of the Qun (although he never quite came out and said it). Also, that Hissrad had lost an eye protecting a stranger.

He did not understand his new arvaarad at all. But it was not his place to understand, only to obey, he chastised himself.

At midday, they stopped at a stream crossing to water the horses and rest, and Hissrad came to sit beside him. “You gotta take off the mask, kid.”

Saarebas hesitated, unsure whether this was a genuine order or another subtle trick. At most, Arvaarad had given him solid food once a day; all his other meals were a thin gruel slurped between the stitches. With a surreptitious glance at the rest of the kith, it seemed that everyone was eating hardtack and jerky, foods too tough for a saarebas to chew anyway. So why take his mask? Did they want to laugh at him trying to mouth at something he couldn’t bite? He felt a trickle of hot nausea at the thought, and reminded himself that it did not matter if they used him for their amusement. Swords had no shame.

He lifted shaking hands to unbuckle the straps and set aside his mask.

Hissrad placed a hunk of cheese and a fruit in his hands. The fruit wasn’t a kind he recognized, not something that grew on Seheron—yellow-green and oddly shaped. At Hissrad’s insistence, he bit into it, and the pale flesh inside was soft and sweet and delicious, perfect for balancing the sharp tang of the cheese. It tasted so blissfully good that Saarebas decided, even if this was a trick, he’d happily accept a punishment later in exchange for this pleasure now.

“I need you to eat,” Hissrad said. “Do you understand? You’re too thin, and I need you strong to be of use to my kith.”

Saarebas ducked his head in compliance, face burning at the rebuke. His old arvaarad had enjoyed how small and weak and pathetic he was. _It’s not my fault_ protested some tiny, traitorous voice in the back of his thoughts, but he smacked it down ruthlessly. He would correct what his new arvaarad saw as a defect. A sword has no shame.

******

On the afternoon of the second day of travel, the road took them back to Crestwood.

Another thing Bull really appreciated about Cadash is that she liked to get shit _done_. What Cadash called “not waiting around with our thumbs up our asses,” the Iron Bull would call “efficiency _._ ” Since Crestwood was on the way, they’d established an outpost at Caer Bronach, closed the floodgates, and met with Warden Stroud before proceeding to the Storm Coast. It would take a while for the lake formerly known as Crestwood Village to drain, and they planned to hit that rift on their way back to Skyhold.

It was _almost_ a good plan.

On the upside, Old Crestwood was no longer under several meters of water. It was, however, absolutely _infested_ with walking corpses.

Cadash threw herself off her pony and drew one of her daggers, tossing it from hand to hand thoughtfully. “All right. Krem, take the horses and anyone who’s injured up to Caer Bronach. Check in with Charter and let her know we’re in town. Everyone else, with me. Let’s go fuck up a rift.”

Bull dismounted from the draft horse he rode and unclipped the great axe from his harness, his pulse a steady rhythm as he settled into the right headspace for dealing out some carnage. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he rolled his shoulder and his arm brushed against Saarebas, standing close behind him.

“Damn, kid, I coulda taken your head off. You’re a sneaky little bastard, huh?” Bull swept his gaze over the village, cataloguing the danger. “You should go with Krem.”

The mage stubbornly ignored that suggestion and followed at Bull’s heels as he grouped up with the others to take combat orders from Cadash. Soon enough, they were in the thick of it, Bull cleaving pieces off creepy-ass corpses as Varric found some high ground and Cassandra shield-bashed to her heart’s content.

Saarebas made a frustrated growling noise in the back of his throat, his whole body tense as a pulled bowstring, his hands frozen into claws at his sides.

“I’m no battle-magic expert,” Bull said between swings of his axe, “so if there’s something you can do here, you’re gonna have to just do it already.”

Saarebas huffed out his nose, almost a snort.

“Koslun’s balls—that was me giving you permission to cast. Go!”

Lifting his arms, Saarebas executed a flourish of hand gestures that reminded Bull of a music conductor. For one tense moment, every corpse in a thirty-meter radius froze, then they all simultaneously collapsed to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

“Oh, I’m gonna like this mage,” Cadash cackled.

Cassandra threw the saarebas a sharp, surprised look. “That was necromancy.”

The word yanked on something inside the Iron Bull’s mind, and a lost memory hit him like a maul to the face.

_“This is madness,” Hissrad said. “You can’t indoctrinate bas saarebas.”_

_“We’re at war,” said Viddathiss, “and it is a necromancer. Do you have any idea how useful that could be?”_

_“The Arishok would never approve a bas saarebas for deployment.”_

_The corner of Viddathiss’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen what a necromancer can do with a field of corpses. Even in death, our karasaads will serve the Qun.”_

Bull shook his head to clear it. Fuck. _Fuck_. Now wasn’t the time to go digging around in the past, with a village full of demon-possessed corpses all around them.

With the aid of Saarebas’s necromancy, they made short work of the undead in the village and then went down into the caverns below to close the rift. Saarebas stuck close to Bull’s side, which meant he had to hang back and temper his swings instead of charging headlong into the enemies with his great-axe flying. It wasn’t a bad outing, objectively speaking—no one took any serious injuries, and they accomplished their objective—but the stress of worrying about Saarebas’s safety drained it of the joy Bull otherwise would’ve felt. Getting to really lay into some enemies, with no guilt required over killing actual people, was usually the highlight of his week.

Tired and blood-spattered, Cadash’s field team hiked up the hill to Caer Bronach to stay the night. Charter’s team of scouts had only just begun the process of cleaning out the abandoned keep and turning it habitable, so for now the Chargers had set up tents in the main courtyard. Bull managed to get Saarebas to eat dinner with a minimum of fuss, then left him sitting at the fire with Varric and Dalish, while he went off to lean on the battlements and ruminate.

That flash of memory felt genuine. Not something his tired brain had cooked up just to screw with him. But the idea of suppressed memories had _re-education_ written all over it, and why would the re-educators deem it necessary to take that conversation from him? Why had they erased the human saarebas from his mind?

“You all right there, Chief?” Krem cuffed him on the shoulder and then leaned against the parapet beside him.

“I remembered something,” Bull reluctantly admitted. “About the saarebas. I think I’ve seen him before—on Seheron.”

Krem laid into him with that unforgiving side-eye his lieutenant was so good at. “Chief… you saying that kid has been a prisoner of war for _seven years_?”

“Yeah. Think so.”

For once, Bull was glad that Krem got hung-up on the Vint perspective. Sure, seven years was a long time, but an even worse implication lurked beneath that. Memory modification was difficult work; the re-educators would only have bothered to bury memories that were a source of deep emotional conflict to the subject.

No, please no. If Bull didn’t think about it, maybe it wouldn’t be true.

******

Cullen walked with Josephine through the great hall, heading down to meet the field team as they returned to Skyhold.

The Inquisitor had sent a very… _Cadash-like_ raven message from the Storm Coast camp: _Alliance was nugshit. Fuck the Qun. Picked up POW mage, ID unknown—J, check out missing Tev nobles._

“Any response yet from Tevinter?” Cullen said, as they descended the main stairs.

“I’m expecting a crate of missing persons reports to be delivered within the week,” the ambassador replied. “And if we’re very lucky, my contact inside the Magisterium administration will have managed to send it discreetly.”

“It won’t stay quiet for long, once we have a saarebas running around Skyhold.”

Josephine did not lift her chin or square her shoulders, because she was too well trained for such obvious tells, but there was note of firm determination in her voice when she said, “We will contain the situation as best we can.”

By the time they reached the lower courtyard, Cadash’s strike team and the Chargers had already turned over their horses to Dennet’s stablehands. They came tromping across the dirt toward the stairs in a loose group, Cassandra in the lead, Bull just behind her and—oh. Cullen got his first look at their visitor.

The mage trotted at Bull’s heels like a lost puppy, silent and obedient and… oh _Maker_ , oh fuck, Cullen was in trouble.

Cullen had a type. He always had, really—although certain events in his life had refined his tastes. By the time he was through with Kirkwall, he couldn’t get it up for anything except submissive mages. Managing his perversion hadn’t been a problem before today; Skyhold only had a handful of mages around, none of them particularly skittish around the Commander, and so as long as he was careful to steer clear of the few Tranquil, he could avoid temptation entirely.

But that terrible, sick part of his brain looked at Bull’s saarebas and thought, _what a sweet thing, I bet he’ll cry while I fuck him_. No, no. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ground himself in reality, but— _good little boy on his knees, make him beg for it, make him choke on my cock_ —stop it. STOP IT.

“I, um, forgot something,” he muttered to Josephine before he turned away and fled back to his office.

Shut safely behind closed doors, Cullen sucked in great, deep lungfuls of air, trying to calm himself. This was nothing he hadn’t navigated before. He was out of practice, that was all. He circled around to stand at his desk, staring down at the stacks of paper without really seeing them. If he could handle almost a decade in the Gallows, he could handle this.

Of course in Kirkwall, he’d had lyrium. And that other thing… the thing he swore he would never do again.

No. He’d left all of that behind him when he left the Order. He would do his best for the Inquisition, clean and sober and present in the now. He was dedicated to defeating Corypheus and his army of corrupted rebel mages—nothing else mattered. If that first hopeless night in the snow after the fall of Haven didn’t break him, he was not going to break.

The very slight creak of a hinge was the only sound that gave away someone entering his office. “All right, Knight-Captain?” said Garrett Hawke, the smirk audible in his tone even before Cullen glanced up.

“Now,” Cullen said around clenched teeth, “is not a good time.”

“Someone’s in a _mood_. Is hiding in your office an Inquisition-specific strategy, or is this one of the brilliant tactics you brought over from Kirkwall?”

So _the talk_ was finally happening; he’d been waiting on tenterhooks for Hawke to taunt him with this ever since Varric first brought him in. Bitterly, Cullen spat out, “I’m sure you and your merry little band of morons had a nice, long laugh when Bethany told you about me, but that doesn’t give you the right to saunter in here and try to… to _undermine_ everything I’m…”

Hawke held up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, whoa there. I don’t know what you think this is about, but all Bethany ever said was that you gave her the key to the cellar so they could hide from Meredith’s crew.” The seriousness of Hawke’s tone was disorienting in its complete unfamiliarity. “And if you think I’d _ever_ try to use that against you, then _you’re_ the fucking moron. You saved my sister’s life, asshole.”

Cullen exhaled, leaning heavily on his desk as he tried to contain his relief. Hawke didn’t know; Bethany had kept his secret. “Then what, pray tell, do you want, Garrett?”

He shrugged. “Thought you’d like to know there’s a meeting in half an hour to discuss the whole brainwashed Vint prisoner-of-war thing. Apparently, chains outside the bedroom is a no-no. Who knew?”

“And you’ve decided to take up employment as a messenger boy?” Cullen said dryly.

“Oh-ho, the lion _does_ have claws.” Hawke smirked. “The fair lady Malika asked me to spread the word.”

Cullen snorted. “Try calling her that to her face, and see how long you live.” It was _Cadash_ or _Inquisitor_ or _Mal_ to her friends, but _Malika_ was a stabbing offense.

“What, you don’t think I could take her?” Hawke twirled a dagger between his fingers.

“No.”

He sheathed the dagger and clutched his chest. “You _wound_ me, serah!”

“I have faith your ego will recover, somehow.”

******

Cadash probably meant to herd them all into the War Room, but Bull settled on a chair near the fireplace in Josephine’s office instead. Saarebas knelt obediently at his side, but at least he was in front of the fire so the stone floor wouldn’t be quite so cold. Bull had to pick his battles, and convincing the kid to stop kneeling at his feet was gonna take some doing.

The advisory council and the entire Inner Circle trickled in, and even the Champion was in attendance. Cadash ran the debriefing, with only occasional comments from Bull to clarify the events on the Storm Coast.

“So there we are, that’s the deal,” Cadash said, when everyone was up to speed. “Questions? Comments? Concerns?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Vivienne said to Bull, “but this situation is obviously untenable. It cannot be allowed to continue. Inquisitor, you must see how this will be interpreted as a statement of the Inquisition’s stance on the proper treatment of mages.”

Cadash rolled her eyes. “You want me to kick out Sera, too, in case she’s interpreted as a statement of the Inquisition’s stance on Orlesian fashion?”

“Hey!” Sera shouted from somewhere in the back. “I look friggin’ _hawt_ in plaidweave tights!”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “That is hardly comparable.”

The lady ambassador looked torn. “I’m afraid I must agree that the optics of having an enslaved mage residing in Skyhold will be challenging to navigate.”

“Boss,” said Bull, “we can’t just take away his chains and declare ‘you’re free!’ and expect him to know how to handle that. He’s been indoctrinated.”

“Regardless of our true motives,” Josephine countered, “we will be hard-pressed to convince people that this situation is anything other than what it appears to be.”

“Solutions, anybody?” said Cadash. “I mean, we could hang a sign around his neck that says ‘I’m wearing this creepy mask by choice’, but somehow I don’t think that’d work in our favor.”

“Here’s a notion I’ve been workin’ on,” Blackwall grumped. “Take the creepy mask away.”

The Iron Bull was getting tired of people who really had no frickin’ clue trying to assert control over the kid who was, for better or worse, under his care. He allowed a little of that irritation to bleed into his tone when he said, “Fine, you want to see what happens when the mask comes off? We can all see what happens.”

Bull unfastened the mask and laid it on the floor. The saarebas made a terrified whining noise in the back of his throat and buried his face in the side of Bull’s calf.

“All right, all right, come here,” he murmured softly in Qunlat, then wrapped his hand over the kid’s face. Saarebas relaxed into his touch, letting Bull take the weight of his head.

“Oh, what the _fuck_ ,” Cadash declared unhappily.

“Like I’ve been trying to tell you,” Bull said, “he’s been very thoroughly conditioned.”

Varric said, “Look, we can all agree this is weird and creepy and uncomfortable. But I’d be a whole lot less comfortable with standing back and watching him self-immolate, so if Tiny wants to take responsibility for the kid…”

Bull chuckled darkly. “You think this is bad? Shoulda seen him when I explained we didn’t have any string to stitch his lips closed again. Pitched a fit like you wouldn’t believe.”

Madame Vivienne’s lip curled, caught between pity and revulsion. “You can’t possibly believe you’ll be able to rehabilitate this… creature.”

Cole appeared, crouched on the saarebas’s other side, and it was only thanks to years of Ben-Hassrath training that Bull managed not to tense in surprise.

“Bright, sharp, so many faces,” Cole intoned. “Gazes landing like the stinging blows of a tamarind switch. Be still, be nothing. Fall into the tide. A sword cannot fear.”

Firm but not unkind, Cassandra said, “Cole, I do not believe you ought to be sharing such thoughts with everyone. He is not a _creature_.” She shot an offended glance at Vivienne. “The man is entitled to what privacy we can give him.”

Cole stood, the motion eerily smooth. “His hurts are buried deep. Layers and layers like the strata of the earth. It’s very hard to see what’s underneath.”

Cadash held her hands up. “All right, folks—since none of you geniuses have come up with any actually useful suggestions, my original decision stands. The Iron Bull is in charge of unfucking the kid’s mind, to whatever degree that’s possible, and the rest of us will figure out how to minimize the fallout. Town hall meeting adjourned.”

******

Cullen lingered in Josephine’s office as the Inner Circle filtered out in twos and threes.

He was fairly certain he’d made it through the meeting without any of his too-perceptive colleagues picking up on the dark thoughts clawing at his mind. When the mage had leaned his face into Bull’s hand—so pliant, so sweet—Cullen practically _choked_ on his jealousy. He’d pressed himself harder against the wall where he leaned, until the edges of his armor jabbed painfully into his shoulders. Something to focus on besides his disturbed desires.

Everyone else’s reactions only confirmed how sick Cullen was, how they’d lose all respect for him if his perversion ever came to light. But he’d had a method in Kirkwall to keep himself in check. He would take that sick, possessive urge and twist it into something useful—a protective instinct, strong enough to protect the mage even from himself.

“Is there something I can do for you, Commander?” Josephine said.

Cullen startled and looked up. The two of them were alone in an otherwise empty room. He pushed off the wall and walked over to join her by her desk. “Well, I was thinking…”

“Always a good habit in a military leader,” Josephine joked, not unkindly.

“I mean, ah, regarding the mage.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you… do you have any Orlesian masks?”

An hour later, Cullen found himself on the third floor of the Herald’s Rest, standing in front of the Iron Bull’s door. He knocked and waited, rapidly losing his nerve. Maker, what was he thinking, this was so stupid, he should just go… but then Bull was opening the door and ushering him inside, and it was too late to retreat with his dignity intact.

“What’s up, Cullen?”

He cleared his throat, felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I, um… I got something. For him.”

Bull turned and spoke in Qunlat, and Cullen looked past him to see the mage rising from where he knelt on the floor. ( _Kneeling on the floor, oh Maker,_ Cullen’s mouth went dry—no, stop it.) His face was still bare, or perhaps bare again, and when the saarebas shuffled closer Cullen got his first real look. The man was beautiful: elegantly angled bone structure, downcast gray eyes, the small dots of scars around his lips seeming to accentuate their fullness. His black hair was loose and damp around his shoulders and he was freshly shaven, as if the Iron Bull had just brought him back from the baths.

The thought of Bull getting to scrub down the mage’s naked body while he squirmed… oh, Cullen _burned_ with envy. _No, stop_. He didn’t want to own the saarebas, he wanted to _protect_ him.

Cullen held out the piece he’d chosen from Josephine’s collection: a black half-mask, light weight, tooled with subtle designs. The mage just stared at it until Bull murmured some kind of encouragement, then his hands rose hesitantly to accept the gift.

“I thought it might feel… safe? But maybe a bit less cumbersome than the old one. And those fops in the great hall wouldn’t stare so much.” He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward beneath the weight of the mage’s silence.

“That’s some good thinking,” Bull said, both of them watching as the mage ran his fingers over the bird-like arch of the mask’s nose. “He likes it.”

Bull asked a question in Qunlat. There was a long pause in which it wasn’t even clear if the mage had heard before he gave a tiny nod. Only then did Bull take the mask and gently help him try it on, the mage’s gaze staying meekly lowered while those large gray hands brushed his face.

Cullen wasn’t jealous. He _wasn’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! Feedback is writer fuel.
> 
> Apparently this is gonna be another long one, because every little thing is so intense for Dorian.


	3. Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for aftermath of sexual slavery and related conditioning

Saarebas had arrived at the conclusion that Hissrad didn’t want to fuck him while they were out on a mission, living out of tents in close proximity to the rest of his kith. So that first night in Hissrad’s room with the thick stone walls, he assumed the dry spell would end.

The evening was off to a very promising start when Hissrad said, “All right, kid—I’d like you to try to sleep without Cassandra purging your mana. And if you agree to that, then you can sleep in this nice bed with me, instead of on a bedroll on the floor. Sound like a deal?”

Saarebas didn’t really understand why Hissrad was phrasing this as if it were a choice, but he nodded nonetheless. While the thought of trying to sleep with his magic still active made him nervous, at least he would finally get to attend to Hissrad’s needs.

Except he was wrong. All they did in the bed was sleep.

In the morning, Saarebas woke to _blissful_ warmth—for the first time since the dreadnought aimed south, he was actually warm enough. Probably because he was mashed up against Hissrad, sandwiched between his arm and his side, gray skin radiating heat like a furnace. Saarebas was safe, and held, and warm, and it all felt… unearned. A luxury meant for real people, not dangerous things.

He should pay for this indulgence quickly, before he could be punished. Saarebas sat up and fumbled with the laces on Hissrad’s trousers. He managed to get a hand on his dick before Hissrad woke and pulled him away. Hissrad grumbled in that language Saarebas couldn’t hear, then sat up, facing away. Saarebas held his breath, expecting at the very least to be slapped across the face for his miscalculation.

“Kid…” Hissrad said, rubbing at his empty eyesocket with the heel of one hand. “I dunno how many different ways I can say this: I don’t expect you to get me off. Got it?”

Saarebas huffed. No, he did not understand; why even take on the burden of keeping a saarebas, if he had no intention of using him?

Bull stood and stretched, then settled behind the writing desk and began sorting through a pile of papers. Saarebas stayed on the bed, peeled off his nightshirt and smallclothes, and petulantly threw them on the floor.

“If you want to play with yourself, I’m not gonna stop you. It’s your body.”

None of that made any sense. His body belonged to his arvaarad. He couldn’t pleasure himself, he could only perform for Hissrad’s pleasure.

He spread his legs obscenely wide and ran his hands all over his body, writhing on the bed, trying to draw Hissrad’s attention. Saarebas was sure he could see him out of the corner of his single eye, but Hissrad remained stubbornly focused on his paperwork. Saarebas started fondling his cock and balls, working his half-hard erection to full mast, preparing his hole with his other hand. If he could only pique Hissrad’s interest, he was _sure_ his new arvaarad would enjoy using him, and then Saarebas could have at least a few minutes in which the uncertainty melted away.

Oh yes, he could see it now, as he stroked himself with more urgency. Hissrad was big and strong and would destroy his hole, fuck him until he screamed through his stitches, until every last thought fled from his mind and there was nothing left but the surety of his purpose. Even with his lips pressed tightly closed (pretending the thread still wove them shut) he could make a wide range of filthy whines and moans in his throat, and he tried out all those sounds now, begging for Hissrad’s attention.

He was so close, so close, but his body belonged to his arvaarad, and he couldn’t— he just couldn’t without—

Hissrad let out an exasperated sigh, but he showed mercy on Saarebas and finally— _finally—_ looked. The weight of Hissrad’s one-eyed gaze released his orgasm like a tensed bowstring snapping, and he screamed in his throat and bucked wildly as he spilled over his hand and stomach.

Surely now his arvaarad would flip him over and fuck him until he couldn’t walk, and everything would feel right again. It would hurt, but he’d know he was a good thing that had fulfilled its purpose. So he got himself into position, face and forearms planted on the sheets, arse in the air.

He waited. His heart sank.

Hissrad heaved another audible sigh and spoke in a gentle tone. “I’m not gonna fuck you, kid.”

Though there was no hint rebuke in the words, how else could they be interpreted? Saarebas had failed—no matter how hard he tried, he was disgusting and undesirable. His place with his new arvaarad would never be secure. He would be disposed of like the refuse he was. An agonized sob escaped his mouth, but he stayed with his face buried in the mattress and his arse raised, _praying_ Hissrad would change his mind.

Instead, Hissrad came over and knelt next to the bed. He reached out and toppled Saarebas onto his side, then dragged him closer into an embrace, his back pressed to Hissrad’s chest, strong arms pinning him in place. It was comforting, even if it wasn’t the kind of comfort he’d been begging for.

“Oh, kid. I dunno how to even start explaining this in a way you’ll actually _get_.” He paused. “Okay. So. Do you know what a Tamassran is?”

Saarebas nodded. There were always a few Tamassrans coming and going, to look after the health of the troops.

“And are you a Tamassran?”

Saarebas shook his head. What a ridiculous notion—he was a weapon, and Tamassrans were people.

“What are you?” After an uncertain pause, Hissrad insisted, “I’m gonna need you to say it. Just that one word, if you can.”

He tried to shape the sounds around his tongue; it was hard to remember how after so long. Finally, he whispered, “Saarebas.”

“Right. Your role is to cast magic. Keep your allies alive and crush your enemies. So how the _fuck_ can it also be your job to take care of my sexual needs? You’re not a Tamassran. You can’t be two roles at once.”

That… made sense. But Arvaarad had always…

Dangerous things needed to be milked like qalabas so they did not become temperamental.

Arvaarad fucking his face, taking pleasure from him.

Hissrad’s gentle refusals.

Saarebas’s head swam, dizzy with the dissonance of conflicting ideas. Hissrad seemed to be implying that Arvaarad had done something wrong, but that was _impossible_ , that would shake the very foundations of his world. Arvaarad knew best, Arvaarad was infallible…

“Whoever did this to you, whoever trained you to think this was part of your job—they violated the Qun. They forced you to perform a role that was never meant for you.”

No. No no no, Arvaarad was the arbiter of all that was right, he could not have erred so significantly, because if Arvaarad could be wrong about _one_ thing, were _any_ of the rules correct? How could Saarebas possibly know what he was supposed to do if the rules were cast into doubt? _Everything_ began to dissolve like a sandcastle as the tide came in, each wave eroding a structure that had once seemed so complex and solid.

A low, keening noise started in his throat, and he couldn’t make it stop.

Hissrad held him tighter and rocked him slightly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is so hard. Do not fear the dark. The sun and the stars will return to guide you.”

Saarebas whimpered. The sun and stars were gone. The tide didn’t carry him; he was sinking and drowning in the depths.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Hissrad murmured. “You’re not alone. I got you.”

******

The Iron Bull wanted to properly mourn the lives lost in the dreadnought explosion, but it was hard to do when he felt _so fucking glad_ that shithead Arvaarad was dead.

The kid was like a bone that had healed wrong; there was no way to set him straight without breaking him again first. It had to happen, he would never get better if he clung to the belief that what had been done to him was _right_ , but Bull worried this was too much, too soon. It would be so easily to ruin what little progress they’d made and send Saarebas right back to where he started—kneeling in the sand, throat bared, asking for death. Bull didn’t think he could stand seeing him like that again.

Saarebas quieted down after a while, and Bull got him cleaned up and dressed for the day. It was hard to tell what, if anything, was going on in his head; the kid was clearly proficient at emptying his thoughts, another coping mechanism that was gonna be a bitch to unlearn. The only bright spot in an otherwise exhausting morning was when Saarebas put on the black Orlesian half-mask all on his own, without Bull needing to forbid him from wearing the old brass mask instead.

The Iron Bull grinned like an idiot and cupped the kid’s face in his hands. “Hey, look at that handsome man, ready to fit in with his new karataam.”

He seemed disoriented and uncomfortable with the praise, but also ever so slightly pleased.

“I know this change has been really hard, but you’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you.”

Saarebas gazed into the middle distance, eyes unfocused, as if determined not to react.

Bull sighed. “Come on, let’s go see if they’re still serving breakfast.”

Even with the new mask, Saarebas drew stares as they crossed the lower courtyard to reach the mess hall. The control collar was too bulky and utilitarian to be confused for a necklace, and the kid was holding his arms behind his back again in imitation of being bound. Once inside the mess hall, Saarebas fussed about not being allowed to kneel on the floor, and Bull braced for another full-on tantrum, but apparently the morning had worn out the mage’s daily supply of existential panic. Bull managed to get him seated on a bench beside Krem at one of the long tables.

On the road back from Crestwood, Bull had learned that giving Saarebas a choice about what to eat—or a choice about almost anything, really—was absolutely paralyzing. So he loaded the kid’s plate with scrambled eggs and scooped out the soft, warm insides from a loaf of crusty bread and buttered it for him. He munched on the leftover crust himself while Krem chattered at the kid in Tevene. The rest of the Chargers had mostly gotten used to his nonresponsiveness, though Dalish still hovered a bit, wanting to help despite being incapable of catching Saarebas’s attention.

The Iron Bull watched as Saarebas seemed to shiver under the weight of Tevene words, his native language doing… _something_ in his brain, something Bull could only hope was good. So far, his brilliant tactic for deconditioning was just to respond to each disaster as they happened. The sex thing, the stitches, the fucking _second bowl of porridge_ that nearly turned the kid catatonic. But simply reacting wasn’t a long-term strategy; he needed a plan, he needed to decide how to do this.

Everyone else would want the collar and manacles to come off as soon as possible, but that would be for _their_ comfort, not for the kid’s recovery. What did the kid need? At the top of Bull’s list were social interaction and mental stimulation—anything to get him engaged with the world around him, instead of this routine where he ignored everything except his arvaarad.

After breakfast, the Iron Bull took him on a walking tour of Skyhold, hoping to get him familiarized with his environment. Becoming comfortable with navigating around his new home would be an important step toward independence, but Saarebas didn’t seem to grasp the purpose of the exercise, no matter how Bull tried to call his attention to the Herald’s Rest or the training grounds or the great hall. The saarebas mask was designed to keep the subject disoriented and completely reliant—hard for a mage to run away when they never knew where they were or how to get anywhere else. Even with his vision unimpaired by the new mask, the kid kept his gaze on the stones in front of his feet, determinedly tuning out his surroundings.

Oh, well. At least walking a circuit around the ramparts gave Bull an opportunity to monitor for suspicious changes to the guard rotation. He anticipated a farewell volley from the Ben-Hassrath would arrive any day now.

They paused at Bull’s favorite spot along the battlements, with a spectacular view of the mountains. Spring had supposedly arrived in the Frostbacks, but the wind still had teeth, and he tucked Saarebas’s cloak tighter around the kid.

“Look at me, Saarebas.”

The contrast of the black mask turned those gray eyes shockingly pale by comparison, and there was something unexpectedly intense about having the kid actually meet his gaze. The Iron Bull had a lot of respect for Vivienne, but about this, Ma’am was dead wrong: there was a _person_ still in there.

Bull had to clear his throat. “Look, I’m down an eye—which means I’m not so great at catching nonverbal cues. So I’m gonna need you to work on answering my questions with actual words.”

Yet another blatant lie, but all those years of Ben-Hassrath training didn’t vanish overnight—he had to use logic that made sense to the subject. So when he wanted to say, _I can’t have sex with someone who has no concept of consent_ , or _you need to find your voice again for your own sake_ , he swallowed the truth, and he used whatever explanation he thought might permeate. Tear down all that training with the same manipulative techniques used to build it up in the first place.

He’d feel guilty about that later— _after_ it worked.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it’d really help me out if you answered verbally. Make sense?”

The kid nodded. Silent.

Bull sighed.

******

“Thanks for carving out the time, Commander, I know you’re busy.”

They were in the garden, Cullen’s chessboard already set up on the small table in the gazebo.

“Of course, I—I’d like to help, if I can,” Cullen stammered.

The Iron Bull took the other chair, and Saarebas tried to kneel on the cold flagstones at his feet, but Bull patted his knee, instead. “Come here,” he said in Qunlat.

Saarebas obediently climbed into his lap like a child, but he kept his gaze down and unfocused.

“Look at this,” Bull coaxed. “Do you know this game?”

Saarebas stared at the board for moment, then shook his head, but there was uncertainty in the gesture. Bull would bet his left tit that a noble’s son would’ve learned chess as a child; the knowledge was buried in his head somewhere.

“Watch us play. See if you can figure out how it works.”

Having received permission in the form of an order, the kid’s attention stayed focused on the board as Bull and Cullen traded the first few moves. His lips pressed together in a frown of concentration that was mostly hidden behind the Orlesian half-mask.

Bull allowed himself a relieved laugh and switched back to Common. “Damn, _finally_. You would not believe how hard it is to get him to focus on anything.”

Cullen castled, then threw Bull a wary glance. “I suppose mages under the Qun aren’t given libraries to keep their minds sharp.”

“They’re made into weapons, empty vessels waiting to be told what to kill. They’re not supposed to need mental stimulation any more than my axe does.”

“Can he read?”

“In Qunlat? Nah, they wouldn’t have bothered teaching him.” Bull took his turn, careful that his large hand didn’t obscure Saarebas’s view of the board. “He doesn’t seem to respond to Common at all, and it’s not like we’ve got an overabundance of Tevene reading materials lying around Skyhold.”

“Hm,” the Commander replied, his gaze wandering to Saarebas.

They kept playing. Thank _fuck_ that the chess part of Bull’s plan was panning out, because his other reason for arranging the game was to observe Cullen and that… was going less well. He’d picked up some subtle signs before, but with prolonged exposure it was obvious: the Commander was attracted to Saarebas and wildly jealous of Bull. If his sensitive nose was right, Cullen was currently hiding an erection under the table just from watching Saarebas sit innocently in Bull’s lap.

As if this situation needed to be any _more_ complicated.

The first game ended with the Iron Bull in checkmate—partly because the Commander was a decent opponent, but also because Bull was spending half his attention on Saarebas. As Cullen reset the board, Bull said to the kid, “Do you want to try playing?”

Saarebas’s hand fisted unconsciously against Bull’s knee, tense with anxiety. Maybe that was asking too much.

“How about this: I’ll pick the piece,” Bull said, lifting a pawn, “and you tell me where it goes.”

There was a long pause in which Saarebas sat rigid as a statue, as if he were mentally measuring the risk that this was all some sort of elaborate ploy destined to end in terrible punishment. Finally, he gave a very small nod. His hand darted out to tap one finger against a square, then pulled back into his lap like he was afraid it might get smacked.

“Good job,” Bull said, setting the pawn down in place.

Saarebas turned and buried his face against Bull’s shoulder for a moment, as if that small fragment of participation had been stressful enough to merit hiding afterward. Bull ran a soothing hand up and down his back while Cullen took his turn.

“Should we move another one?” Bull said, reaching for a second pawn, and Saarebas rallied enough bravery to face the board again.

The opening moves were easy enough—not a whole lot of choice about how each piece could move, not until the board loosened up a bit. But once they hit the mid-game, things got more challenging for both of them. Every time Bull opened his mouth it was like navigating a booby-trapped maze. If he said, _where do you want it to go_ , that emphasized how he was putting the burden of choice on the saarebas’s shoulders. If he said, _which square is better_ , that emphasized how there was a correct answer and thus the potential for getting it wrong.

“This one.” Bull tapped his knight, and then withdrew his hand without picking up the piece. “Where should I move it?”

Saarebas was sitting up straight, leaning forward, totally absorbed. His eyes flicked over the board as if doing mental calculations, and Bull wanted to cheer. After careful consideration, he tapped a square.

“Very good. Why don’t you move it for me?”

Saarebas reached out, then hesitated. He pulled his hand back and touched his palm to his face, instead, not so much adjusting his mask as reassuring himself of its presence. (Not the worst self-soothing habit he could develop.)

“You can do it,” Bull reassured.

With visible effort, Saarebas moved the knight for himself.

Bull kept choosing the pieces for the rest of the game, afraid to push too much responsibility onto Saarebas and ruin all this progress. The kid was focused, thinking critically and making decisions; it was a promising start.

When Saarebas closed in on checkmate, Bull declared, “Hey, look at that! We won.”

The Commander knocked over his king with a rueful smile. It was quite obvious he’d thrown the game to ensure his own loss, and Bull nodded a subtle _thank you_ to him for it.

Saarebas turned and face-planted into Bull’s chest again, but this time he seemed pleased, and self-consciously trying to hide it. Bull felt the first hints of a smile pulling at the kid’s lips. “Crush enemies,” Saarebas whispered against Bull’s skin.

Bull laughed. “Well, Kithshok Cullen isn’t exactly our enemy, but yeah, you helped me win the game.”

He spoke. He _spoke_ all on his own, and Bull felt like dancing a frickin’ jig. They could do this.

******

The assassins showed up, right on schedule.

After Bull threw the second one over the parapet, Cadash had laughed and said, “What a fucking joke, sending two dudes with knives after _you_. If they didn’t at least bother to poison the blade, I’m gonna feel insulted on your behalf.”

Bull had flexed his shoulder, where the shallow knife-wound burned across his skin. “Saar-qamek. If I hadn’t been dosing myself with the antidote, I’d be going crazy and puking my guts up right now. Stings like shit.”

Cadash had smacked her palm against the parapet—almost convincingly casual, if it weren’t for the gleam of rage in her eye. “Whelp, I better go tell Curly and Red it’s time to clean house.”

Now here they were in the war room a few hours later, Bull’s arm bandaged at Stitches’ insistence, Cullen and Leliana ready with their reports. Cullen looked riled, but Leliana’s demeanor was cool and calm as always, betraying no hint of the frantic security sweep they must have just completed.

She said, “We’ve detained one additional Qunari agent who was posing as a scout.”

“They should never have gotten that close.” Cullen’s left hand tightened around his sword hilt. “If I’d paid closer attention—”

Cadash waved off the Commander’s guilt. “They were _assassins_ —it was literally their job to be sneaky little shits. We just need to up our spy-weeding regimen. You think the Ben-Hassrath will try again, Bull?”

“Nah,” he said. “That was a formality. Just making it clear that I’m Tal-Vashoth.”

Cadash planted her hands on her hips. “Sure, sure. But we can’t afford to have Qun agents hanging around, taking an interest in the identity of my new favorite mage.”

She took a quill and a piece of paper from Josephine, laying it flat on the war table. Her handwriting was large and neat, so Bull didn’t even have to snoop to read the letter as she composed it:

_Dear Nugfuckers,_

_I let you off easy after the shit you pulled on the Storm Coast. But the next time you send agents into MY castle to fuck with MY people, I’ll take it as a declaration of war. Don’t test me again._

_Inquisitor Mal Cadash_

That done, she looked back up at him. “I assume your contacts are going dry, but is there a drop point they’ll still be checking where we can leave a message?”

“I can think of one or two,” said Bull.

“Great. Leliana, finish interrogating the prisoner as quickly as possible; I want his corpse left with the letter.”

Cullen sucked in a breath. “Inquisitor! That’s—”

“A proportionate response,” Cadash cut him off. “They sent assassins into _our home_. They should count themselves _lucky_ I have such a hard-on for killing Corypheus after what he did to Haven. If I didn’t have bigger fish to fry, the Qunari would be finding out what Carta vengeance really looks like.”

It should have been ridiculous, one angry little dwarven rogue threatening to take on the Qun in all its might and glory. But the sharpness of Cadash’s flinty stare chilled the Iron Bull to the bone. Mal had never called herself the Herald of any god, but in moments like these, she did seem to be something… _more_. The Inquisitor, bane of the Venatori, wielder of incomprehensible Fade powers and fucking _savior_ of all Thedas. Whether Thedas liked it or not.

That commanding presence of hers was oddly reassuring. He’d always believed that Tal-Vashoth went mad in the absence of the Qun—set adrift with no anchor, their lives empty of structure and purpose. But even if Hissrad was no more, perhaps the Iron Bull could still have a purpose: serving the Inquisition, and more specifically serving this Inquisitor. He didn’t know if it would be enough, but it was an anchor to cling to.

The next morning, Cadash left for the Western Approach to investigate Stroud’s leads on Grey Warden activity. Bull wondered if Blackwall and Vivienne realized why they, specifically, were getting dragged out to the ass-end of nowhere to tromp around a desert with Sera and Hawke. Certainly they _could_ have been chosen because the mission involved Grey Wardens and weird magic. But Bull strongly suspected this was Cadash’s idea of a reprimand for saying stupid shit in the saarebas meeting. _You’ve been found guilty and sentenced to three weeks of sand and snarky rogues_.

This, too, was part of what made it so damn easy to follow Cadash.

******

Afternoon chess with the Iron Bull and the saarebas quickly became the best part of Cullen’s day.

It helped that chess was an activity he associated with _before_ —with his sister Mia, with a time when he was still whole and alive and human. Saarebas was learning quick, and Cullen played poorly on purpose, hungry for those subtle signs of delight when the mage won. He ignored the flame of jealousy at how often Bull and Saarebas touched; it was enough that the mage expressed a growing awareness of Cullen, sometimes looking or pointing at him, calling him _Kithshok_ , which apparently meant _Commander_. It was enough, he told himself.

And if Cullen lay in bed at night, grinding the heel of his palm over a rock-hard erection while he imagined the mage in _his_ lap, those elegant hands on his cock, or that mouth—that _sweet mouth_ … well. He could pray for forgiveness in the morning.

A week after the saarebas’s arrival, Cullen strode into Josephine’s office to follow up with the ambassador on the equipment negotiations.

“Josephine, has there been any word from—” Cullen stopped short, unable to descend the three steps into the office proper, because virtually the entire floor in front of the desk and the fireplace was carpeted in documents. Sitting crosslegged in the middle of the mess, like a sailor marooned on an island in a sea paper, was a rather frazzled-looking Krem. “What are you doing?”

Krem glanced up. “Oh, hey Commander. Turns out that when _somebody_ asked for copies of all the missing persons reports from the past ten years, _that person_ forgot that legal documents are written in Tevene.”

“As I have explained,” Josephine said primly from her seat behind her desk, “I did not forget. Translating the reports would have taken longer, and called additional unwanted attention to our activities.”

“You mighta just requested the reports about nobles. Do you have any idea how many laetans go MIA on Seheron in a decade?”

“Enough to conveniently conceal the identity of our altus from any curious eyes in Tevinter, I would hope,” she replied.

Cullen, who was well acquainted with the feeling of being buried in paper, said, “Do we have anyone else among the troops who reads the language? Perhaps we can find you some assistance.”

“Nah, it’s fine, I love pushing files around,” Krem snarked. “I ran away from home to join the military cuz organizing paperwork is totally my thing.”

Josephine finished writing a line of elegant script and looked up. “Was there something you needed, Commander?”

“Oh. Yes. I wondered if we’d heard anything more from Lady Seryl regarding the siege equipment. If we have to mobilize fast against a target, there won’t be time for such negotiations—I’d rather borrow it and not need it, than find ourselves short a few trebuchets while we’re trying to storm a castle.”

“Mm,” the ambassador agreed, hiding a smile. “And we would not want our commander to feel bereft, with no trebuchets to calibrate.”

“That—that has nothing to do with it,” he sputtered. Fine, yes, he found it very soothing to calibrate the siege equipment, but that was hardly why the Inquisition required some.

From his seat on the floor, Krem let out an excited whoop. “I think I’ve got him!”

Cullen turned, his pulse quickening. “The saarebas?”

Krem scrambled to his feet, reading off the report. “Check it out: six feet, black hair, gray eyes, tan skin, mark on his right cheek—”

“He has no birthmark,” Cullen interrupted.

“He’s got a scar in the right place though,” Krem countered, “and anyway, I’m getting to the best part: magic specializations in _fire and necromancy_. Sound like anyone we know? Went missing 9:33, born 9:11—holy shit, the ‘kid’ is older than me!—and, yeah… it’s a good thing nobody else can read this report, cuz the reward for his safe return is buy-your-own-estate kinda money.”

Josephine’s quill was already scratching notes. “His name, if you please, Lieutenant?”

“Dorian Pavus.” Krem tossed the file down on the floor and kept speaking, his voice bright with false cheer. “The only scion of House Pavus, heir to a seat in the Magisterium and, I’m guessing, a breathtakingly massive fortune. We are so, _so fucked_.”

Josephine let out a small sigh. “That certainly does complicate matters.”

Cullen had the distinct sense that he’d missed something. “What’s the problem? It sounds as if they’ll be very grateful to be reunited.”

Krem rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think you’re really grasping how Tevinter works, Commander. The magisters breed their children like prized horses. If they get him back, they’ll immediately marry him off to a woman whose filial obligation it will be to rape him repeatedly until she produces a male heir to carry on the bloodline.”

Cullen felt the color drain from his cheeks. “Surely they wouldn’t… but he’s…”

“Traumatized? Vulnerable? Completely disinterested in women?” Krem supplied. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be very sad that he’s in no condition to appear on the floor of the Magisterium for next season’s political debates. But if they have to, they’ll milk him like an expensive stallion.”

“No one would abuse their own child like that,” Cullen protested. (He fought hard not to think about how much he would enjoy milking that particular stallion. Would the mage struggle to get away while Cullen relentlessly fingered his prostate? _Stop, stop it_.)

“Pedigree is everything to the alti,” Josephine said. “But I will make some very discreet inquiries into House Pavus. Perhaps we can ascertain the likelihood that they will prioritize Dorian’s recovery.”

“Right,” said Krem dryly, “and then maybe Corypheus will trip and fall into a pit of lava. What a lucky week that will be.”

******

The Iron Bull made a concerted effort to not freak out when the runner told him that Commander Cullen was in the ambassador’s office and had requested the presence of both himself and Saarebas. He knew exactly what Krem was doing in that office. Bull showed up with Saarebas following at his heels, and it was only those years of Ben-Hassrath training that kept Bull’s nervousness submerged beneath the surface, where it couldn’t spread and infect the kid, too.

Predictably, Krem had converted Josephine’s office into a disaster zone of paper. But his lieutenant had one particular file in his hands, and he was walking toward them with intent. “Avanna, Saarebas—”

“Wait,” Bull interrupted. “You’re gonna show him the report? Just like that?”

“He has a right to know,” said Krem. “And if we’re gonna start calling him by his real name, we should test it out in a friendly setting first, yeah?”

Bull scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stubble prickly against his skin. Krem was right; there was only one way to find out how the kid would react. “Yeah, okay.”

Krem guided Saarebas to sit with him on the steps. He spoke, a few sentences of explanation it sounded like, and then handed the report to the kid.

For a minute, it wasn’t clear whether the kid could read it, but then his shoulders tensed and hunched up around his ears. “ _No_ ,” Saarebas breathed aloud in Qunlat, shaking with distress.

Krem put a comforting arm around the kid and responded in gentle Tevene.

“So who is he?” Bull asked Cullen, concealing the trepidation that churned in his gut.

“Noble-born, you were right about that. One Dorian of House Pavus.”

The name hit like a Winter’s Grasp cast straight into his chest.

On the steps, Saarebas was rocking himself and mumbling in Qunlat, “You can’t—he’s not—” He clutched his hands over his ears. “Stop screaming!” (No one was screaming.)

Meanwhile, the Iron Bull _swayed_ under the blow of returning memory, reaching out to grab the wall just to stay on his feet. “ _Fuuuck_ ,” he groaned.

“Bull, are you all right?” said Cullen.

He pressed his eye closed. “Nope.” None of this was all right.

******

_9:33, Qunari military complex east of Alam, Seheron_

The Vint was a clever little fucker, Hissrad had to give him that.

He watched from the spyhole he’d made in the wall of the empty cell across from where he’d installed the prisoner. The kid had gone sixty hours without rest and was finally starting to fray around the edges, but this time when the guard silently delivered his food and water, he looked at it, sniffed it, and set it down without taking so much as a single sip. He paced instead, a bit unsteady on his feet but apparently determined.

That was fine. It wouldn’t last.

Hissrad left the spyhole and entered the prison block through the heavy iron door, then let himself into the kid’s cell like he was a visiting house-guest. “Guards tell me you’re refusing food and water,” he said, keeping his tone jovial.

He sat down at the small table, all civilized-like, but the Vint kept pacing. There was a slightly glazed look in the kid’s eyes, and his arms wrapped around himself, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his own shoulder.

“You’ve put something in the water,” he accused. “Make it so I can’t sleep.”

The potion was usually administered to keep karasaads alert during extended combat engagements. It just happened to also be pretty great for interrogating captives.

“You’re stressed, that’s why you haven’t been sleeping,” Hissrad said.

“It tastes funny!”

Hissrad frowned as if genuinely concerned, picked up the clay mug of water and sniffed it, then took a sip. “Nope, that’s just the way our well water tastes here.”

“You’re lying,” the kid groused, but his certainty was faltering.

“There’s nothing in the water. Here, see?” Hissrad drained the mug. He didn’t have plans to sleep anyway.

The Vint flopped down in the chair on the opposite side of the table, elbows on knees, head in hands. “I don’t…” he began, but couldn’t seem to finish the thought.

Hissrad turned his voice soft and worried. “You’re exhausted, it’s making you paranoid. Promise me you’ll try to get some sleep tonight.”

The kid made a rude noise and leaned indolently back in his chair.

“You’ll feel better if you talk to me. Isolating yourself like this is very stressful. What’s your name?” he asked, for what must be the dozenth time.

“For someone who doesn’t even have a real name, you certainly are obsessed with them,” the Vint grumbled.

Hissrad shrugged. “If you told me, I wouldn’t have to keep asking over and over.”

“You can call me Aquinus.”

“I could,” he said, “but that’s not your name.”

The Vint had been halfway decent at subterfuge when he first came in, but his skills of deception were deteriorating along with the rest of his mental state. His tells were only becoming more obvious as the sleep deprivation took its toll. He tried to cover his surprise by picking up his spoon and tucking into the spicy stew left by the guard.

Hissrad said, “What could it hurt, just sharing your name? It’d make these little chats of ours so much more civil, don’t you think? I’ve already told you I’m Hissrad.”

The Vint closed his eyes, as if he was having trouble concentrating on forming the words. “Not gonna talk. Might as well release me, I don’t know anything...” he trailed off and frowned, unsure.

Hissrad tapped his fingers against the table, making a show of considering. “All right. I’ll get you more water, and we can talk again once you’ve had some rest.”

He left the Vint alone. For now.

Interrogation is a subtler art than most people assume. The trick is to fuck with the subject’s perception of time without them realizing they’re being tortured. Eighteen hours in the light, twelve in the dark, two meals spaced out predictably so they can tell themselves they’re keeping track of the days, even while the time seems to pass _so slowly_. Then comes the fun part.

On the third “evening” of the prisoner’s captivity, no drug was added to the food and water. Shortly after “nightfall,” the effects wore off and the Vint passed out on his pallet. Hissrad let him sleep for three hours, then lit the torches, breezed into his cell with a food tray, and shook him awake.

“Come on, sleepyhead, time to get up,” Hissrad said, voice chipper.

The kid groaned and knuckled at his eye. “No, ‘m tired.”

“What do ya mean? You slept through breakfast, it’s almost noon.”

“Wanna sleep,” the Vint groaned, rolling over to hide his face in the pallet, blocking out the light with an arm curled over his head.

“I’m glad you finally got some rest, but you can’t just sleep all day, that’s not healthy either. Come have some food, you must be starved.”

When the Vint made no move to rise, Hissrad gently but firmly grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. The kid sputtered half-formed protests as Hissrad walked him over to the table and sat him down in a chair.

“I’m worried about you, kid. You’re not well. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can go home.”

The Vint rolled his head to the side and gave him a flat stare. “Not gonna let me go.”

“Smart mage like you, all high-born, I bet there’s somebody who’d make a nice large donation to the Qunari military fund in exchange for getting you back. You just have to tell me your house name, so we can contact them.”

“I have no house,” he grumped.

Hissrad let a hint of reproach slip into his tone. “Now I know that’s not true.”

“Father doesn’t want me back, I’m never what he wanted,” the kid mumbled, talking more to himself than to his interrogator, and oh this was good, they were getting somewhere now.

“Asshole dad, huh?” he said sympathetically.

“You’re an embarrassment, Dorian, what if someone important finds out about your carousing? Do your duty, Dorian, marry the girl and buy a pleasure slave, like everyone else does.” He blew on his tongue, making an impolite noise of derision.

Hissrad smiled. The kid’s name was Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW this chapter was supposed to be, like, three scenes, and somehow it ran away from me -- the world is on fire, so apparently I'm just gonna write excessive amounts of fanfic. Not beta'd, so let me know if you catch any typos.


	4. A Boat to Minrathous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING for sleep deprivation/psychological torture and rape (outside main pairings) in the latter half of this chapter. This is backstory, so you can skip to the next Skyhold chapter if you want to avoid it.

_9:33, Pavus country estate near Qarinus_

Dorian witnessed the conclusion of his twenty-second nameday celebration with an unabashedly satisfied smirk, having successfully offended all three of the prospective female suitors whose presence his parents had no-so-subtly arranged. Ambushing him with eligible young ladies was becoming a more frequent occurrence. Mother pretended she didn’t know about his inclination and Father brushed it off as nothing more than youthful experimenting, and both those reactions enraged Dorian. (Anger, after all, felt so much better than hurt.)

He sat on his favorite carved-stone bench in the gardens, savoring the cool night air along with his fifth or sixth glass of Agreggio Pavali. Orbs of magelight glowed softly, illuminating the garden paths, and autumn insects droned in the distance. Dorian looked up at the sound of soft footsteps—Aquinea glided between the precisely sculpted hedgerows, a vision of gracefully aging beauty wrapped in embroidered purple silk, coming to perch beside him on the bench.

“Lovely party as always, Mother. Do you think I still have a chance with that girl from House Valerius? I had _no idea_ she’d be so sensitive about the citrus trade.”

Aquinea sighed. “Oh, my bright flame,”—she’d called him that ever since he was little—“why must you be so difficult?”

Dorian sipped his wine. “I do it just to vex you, Mother. Surely you must know by now.”

“Do you think all this comes free?” She waved a hand, somehow managing with one small gesture to encompass the finery they both wore, the lovely gardens, the mansion beyond… their whole way of life.

“No,” Dorian answered dryly. “I do believe our wealth pays for it.”

“Wealth that only persists because your ancestors accepted the mantle of their responsibilities. Each generation did their duty to House Pavus—battling their rivals on and off the floor of the Magisterium, cementing alliances through marriage, and securing their line with powerful heirs.”

“Such a shame, then, that you and Father quit after just the one heir. Rather short-sighted of you, I must say. Ought to have _done your duty_ in Halward’s bed a few more times, no?”

Aquinea’s eyes widened in shock—gray eyes, the mirror to his own. Despite the intentional goading, it came as a complete surprise when she slapped him across the cheek. The wine glass fell from his hand and shattered on the ground as stinging pain filled his face.

Dorian blinked to clear moisture from his eye and raised a hand to fix the curl of his mustache. “Really, Mother, how uncouth.”

Her voice lowered, the velvet glove coming off to reveal the iron fist underneath. “You disrespectful little shit. We gave you everything, we laid the _world_ at your feet, and this is how you repay us?”

Dorian rose from his seat. “I have no desire to stomp all over the world in my finely-cobbled boots—squished world-muck can’t be good for the leather. Good night.”

He strolled back toward the mansion, steady on his feet despite his moderate level of inebriation. He refused to let the argument ruin the warm glow of his success; no, if anything, Aquinea’s little display was a victory, _another round to me, dear Mother_.

In the morning, Dorian was still riding high on the accomplishment of foiling his parents, and he decided he wasn’t quite ready to return to his studies. “Change of plans,” he told the carriage driver. “Take me to the westside docks.”

He was supposed to return immediately to the Alexius country estate outside Asariel, but what could it hurt to take a brief detour to Minrathous? The city that never sleeps, where Dorian would be free to debauch himself in any number of ways. Perhaps he’d even flash his birthright around a bit; he could just _imagine_ the expression on Father’s face when he found out that Dorian had charged _male whores_ directly to the Pavus family accounts. Now that would make for some delicious revenge.

When he arrived at the docks, he purchased passage on a merchant vessel that would leave within the hour. It was a sad truth of life that you could have quality, or you could have expediency, but you often couldn’t have both at once—for now, he cared more about arriving in Minrathous as quickly as possible than he did about luxurious accommodations along the way.

He left his luggage and his staff in the cramped closet of a cabin he’d been assigned and returned to the deck to watch as the boat pulled out of the harbor. The sea wasn’t his favorite way to travel, but it was faster than the Imperial Highway, and the water wasn’t too choppy today. Out in the open air, he hoped to be able to keep his breakfast from making a reappearance.

However, the element he least appreciated about traveling could not be avoided—all that idle time in which to ruminate. He couldn’t read on a boat or even in a carriage without inducing an unfortunate amount of nausea, which left his mind with no convenient distractions.

It wasn’t that he particularly _wanted_ to be in a war of attrition with his own parents. Once, he would have done _anything_ to please Father—nothing mattered more to young Dorian that making Halward proud. And he’d been so good at it, too, for the most part. Father magnanimously overlooked his too-frequent reprimands for dueling, because he always _won_ the duels, and in the periods between expulsions his test scores put the other students to shame.

At the age of fourteen, when apprentices are formally tested for proficiency before being allowed to choose their specialization, Dorian passed the basic proficiency exams in _nineteen_ different sub-disciplines of magic, setting a new all-time record for the Circle of Vyrantium. In so doing, he gave Halward lifetime bragging rights for having spawned the brightest mind of Dorian’s generation. (That was the last time his father seemed purely, unequivocally proud of him.)

Of course then three of the older boys decided to teach him some humility and ended up in the infirmary instead, which led to Dorian’s expulsion from yet another Circle. But still. His only regret was that he hadn’t managed to make it an even twenty, which would have been a slightly more satisfying number. And anyway, the Circle of Perivantium might be less prestigious overall, but it had a better necromancy instructor. The necromancer specialization was both delightfully morbid and notoriously difficult, requiring basic proficiency in summoning, death magic, and three different sub-classes of entropy—and none of the students at Perivantium proved dumb enough to fuck with a budding necromancer.

If there was one thing Dorian enjoyed more than winning duels, it was being dangerous enough that no one dared mess with him in the first place.

Lost in thought, Dorian hadn’t noticed as the ship sailed beyond the view of land. Now he glanced around and frowned—the typical route from Qarinus to Minrathous involved heading north to circle around the Eyes of Nocen, but most navigators would hug close to shore, keeping the peninsula in sight off the port bow.

Dorian stopped the first sailor he could find and demanded to know why they were off-course.

“Never you worry, Ser Altus,” said the crewman. “We got ourselves a wee stop to make, and then we’ll have you to the big city in no time at all.”

As they sailed north, an island came into view—not the massive stretching shoreline of Seheron, thank the Maker, but one of the smaller islands to the south of it. A region that was still at least nominally under Imperium control. The ship coasted into a broad cove and dropped anchor, and the crew began lowering crates into a pair of rowboats. There were no docks in sight, but a few people waited on the sandy shore. The whole operation seemed frankly rather sketchy, in Dorian’s estimation.

What had he gotten himself into this time? Dorian didn’t appreciate feeling anxious. He’d always been somewhat prone to anxiety, even as a young boy, and he hated that squirmy little fire under his sternum. This was not _at all_ the nice, easy, two-day boatride to the sweet land of debauchery that he had intended.

His anxiety elevated itself to full-on panic when a warning cry rang out from the crow’s nest. To the east, a Qunari dreadnought came gliding into view, skirting around the island from where it must have been laying in wait on the other side. The crew scrambled to raise the anchor and lower the sails, though they could not possibly hope to get themselves turned about in time to outrun a galleon. Not without a little help.

Stamping down on the terror that pooled in his belly, Dorian raised his hands and called up a storm, filling their sails with wind. The dreadnought had been closing on them, but Dorian concentrated and _pushed_ , and they started gaining distance.

The dreadnought’s cannon fired, and with his awareness so tightly attuned to the storm elements, Dorian could feel the explosion vibrating in the air. He sent another desperate surge of mana into the wind—he had to move them out of range, he had to…

The cannon boomed again, and there was a thunderous _crack_ as the shot took out the main mast. The mast seemed to collapse in slow motion, an inexorable cascade of sailcloth and rigging bearing down on them, the unbalanced weight enough to list the deck. Dorian didn’t see what hit him—a rope?—but whatever it was pitched him over the rail, and he had a few shocked seconds of falling in which to take a deep breath before he hit the water.

Away, he needed to swim away and up, if he tried to surface underneath the waterlogged sail, it would drown him—but which direction was which? He tumbled, disoriented for a moment, and the best he could manage was to swim toward the light. His lungs burned for air; he wasn’t the world’s strongest swimmer, and his long robes were dragging him down and tangling around his legs. He breached the surface and gasped a single breath of air before a wave swamped over his head, filling his nose and mouth with the sting of saltwater.

He was desperate to know the status of the merchant vessel—his survival depended on them—but there was no way to take stock of how the attack was progressing. It was all he could do just to keep from drowning, and that effort was quickly sapping his strength. If he could only calm his racing thoughts enough to focus, there must be a magical solution to this—he’d never met a problem that couldn’t be solved with the right spell.

Of course, ice— _ice!_ Dorian mentally promised ice that he would stop thinking of it as his least favorite element if it would only save his sorry hide now. He aimed beneath himself and cast a large, flat raft of ice below, which then floated up to the surface, lifting him with it. Clinging to his ice raft, Dorian coughed violently, expelling sea water from his nasal cavity and throat. He sucked in great, deep lungfuls of delicious air, and then chuckled hysterically to himself, giddy to be alive.

The ice was unpleasantly cold and making his overworked muscles cramp up, but all he could do was lie on it and breathe. Ugh, the sea was officially dead to him. Next time he would take a carriage.

Dorian felt a sharp sting in his upper arm; he looked, and there was a blowgun dart sticking out of his deltoid. But where…? Ah, a rowboat was heading straight for him, full of gray bodies, gray bodies who were turning blurry as his vision swam. His stomach lurched, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the ice raft bobbing on the waves, or if the vertigo was in is head. Everything went black.

******

The first sensation to permeate his awareness was the musty, slightly molded smell of the straw pallet he was lying face-down upon. Dorian groaned. His hands were bound behind his back so tightly they were numb, and he felt _awful_ inside—a sort of hollowed-out feeling that made his dazed mind briefly wonder if he’d been disemboweled. But no, his intestines were right were they should be, it was his _magic_ that was gone; he tried to cut through the ropes around his wrists with a fire spell and _nothing happened_.

Oh no. No no no this couldn’t be real. The boat, the ambush, the ice raft… he’d been taken prisoner by the Qunari. He rolled to his side and sat up, and now there was no ignoring the heavy weight of the control collar around his neck, pressing on his shoulders and clavicles. Fuck, _fuck_ , how could he escape if he didn’t have access to his magic?

He squeezed his eyes shut and started hyperventilating, a physical outlet for the white-hot terror running like electricity through his veins. Focus, he needed to concentrate, he had to gather information and formulate a plan. Calm down. Figure out where he was first.

Forcing his eyes open, Dorian took in his surroundings. Three walls were stone, the fourth was floor-to-ceiling iron bars. In addition to the pallet, his cell contained a small table and two wooden chairs, and a hole in the floor that presumably served as the privy. Not much to work with. Struggling to his feet, he went to the bars and looked out. He was being held in a small prison block, three cells visible on the opposite side of a center isle, none of them occupied. Presumably there were another two cells on either side of his own, but when he called out, no one answered. Alone, then.

Dorian paced—still a bit woozy from whatever drug had been on the blowgun dart, but steady enough to keep his feet under him, at least. What did the Qunari want him _for?_ He would’ve been easy to kill, lying exhausted on an ice raft in the middle of the sea with no staff and his mana pool half-drained from casting. Why not simply take out the threat?

The iron door at the end of the isle clanged open, interrupting the race of his thoughts, and he froze.

The Qunari who walked in was _huge_ , easily the largest specimen Dorian had ever seen in his admittedly limited experience—seven feet of solid muscle with horns almost as wide as his shoulders. Dorian’s mouth went dry, though whether it was from terror or the sudden inappropriate swell of arousal, he could not say. The Qunari was carrying a tray of food and drink, and here at least was a detail that felt safe to latch onto, something he could twist into a glib taunt.

Dorian lifted his chin. “Oh, am I to be waited upon by tall, strapping, shirtless men? Is this a prison, or a spa?”

The Qunari let out an easy laugh as he unlocked the cell door and let himself inside. “Mouthy little Vint, aren’t ya?”

“I suppose you’d prefer me with my lips sewn shut,” Dorian snapped, and then immediately blanched as he realized they might actually be planning to do that to him.

He set the food tray on the table. “Relax. I’m just here to ask you some questions.”

“My very own interrogator! I’m honored.”

“You may call me Hissrad; that’s my title. And you are?”

“Not particularly in the mood for a friendly chat, after being drugged, kidnapped, and collared.”

“Hm.” Hissrad’s eyes swept over him, an evaluating look that made him feel almost stripped naked. The Qunari moved forward and reached a hand out, and Dorian shrank away, hitching up against the wall of the cell as a fresh wave of panic raced through his veins.

“I was just gonna cut the rope off,” Hissrad said, in an unfairly reasonable tone. “I’ll leave your hands tied if you really want, but it’s gonna get awkward next time you need to take a piss.”

“I…” Dorian swallowed. “Fine. But be quick about it.”

He turned his back to the beast. Hissrad sawed at the ropes with a small knife, and Dorian hoped it wasn’t obvious how he was trembling with fear. Then his arms were free, and the blood rushing back into his numb hands was an _agony_ of pin and needles and tensing muscle. He let out an undignified whine and shook his hands, then clenched and unclenched his fingers a few times, as soon as the digits remembered how to obey his commands.

“Come have a seat,” Hissrad said, moving over to the table. “Have some water, at least—you’re probably dehydrated after your little swim. Swallowing sea water will do that to you.”

Dorian raised a skeptical eyebrow at the food tray. “There are easier ways to kill me, you know.”

“Yeah, there really are,” Hissrad agreed. “That’s why it’s not poisoned.” He plucked a slice of cassava from the plate and popped it in his mouth to prove the point.

Traitor that it was, Dorian’s stomach rumbled, and he became aware that his throat was, indeed, parched. Even if it was poisoned, dehydration would be a much slower and less pleasant death, he decided. “Very well, I’ll eat. But I shan’t be answering any questions.”

Hissrad seemed content to leave him alone with his food. For now.

If they were bothering to interrogate him, that meant they thought he might know something useful. As soon as they figured out that he did not, in fact, have any affiliations with spies or weapons smugglers or whatever it was they suspected him of… as soon as that came to light, he would be disposable. His best chance was to draw this out, to stall for time until he either found an opening to escape or his father sent a rescue party.

Unfortunately, this was where his reputation as a licentious reprobate was going to cost him dearly—no one would think it at all unusual for him to go missing for a few days. Alexius would wait for him to return on his own, then he’d make the trip to Minrathous, do a tour through the seedier establishments in the red light district, and only when he found no sign of Dorian in the capital would he give in and contact Halward. All told, it was likely to be three or four weeks before anyone realized that Dorian was genuinely _missing_ this time.

Three weeks in a Qunari prison would be… a long time.

******

As it turned out, three _days_ in a Qunari prison was almost more than he could bear.

The only thing worse than actually being tortured was _waiting_ to be tortured. Hours and hours and _hours_ alone with nothing to do but think up all the ways in which some blood-crazed oxmen might enjoy hurting an Altus. Dorian had a very creative imagination and a mind that was not accustomed to idleness.

It wasn’t even dinnertime on the first day when Dorian grabbed the bars and screamed, “What are you waiting for?! Do your worst!” If anyone was listening, they ignored him.

By the time Hissrad finally did arrive with dinner, Dorian had developed a brilliant plan to attack and subdue him using a chair as a weapon. He was disarmed embarrassingly quickly, and then made to sit in the very chair he’d attempted to wield, while Hissrad calmly asked him questions. Now sporting a bruised ego on top of a healthy dose of terror, Dorian folded his arms like a sulky child and refused to say a word.

That first night, lying in the oppressive darkness on a lumpy, too-thin pallet, he didn’t sleep a wink, but he was so keyed up on adrenaline at the thought of being _trapped in a Qunari jail_ that it was hardly surprising. The night seemed to last forever; at least when the torches were lit, he could pace to distract himself, or practice necromancy hand gestures, or even count the stones in the walls to keep his mind occupied. He’d never much seen the point in memorizing texts as some of his tutors had advocated, and now he regretted that he had nothing to recite from memory.

The second day, his breakfast was brought in by a Qunari guard he didn’t recognize, who simply dropped the food tray on the table and left again without saying a word. Dorian felt somehow disappointed that it wasn’t Hissrad; at least his interrogator spoke to him. Not that he was _eager_ to get to the inevitable torture part of this lovely little vacation… but the waiting, this _infernal waiting_ was eating away at him like he’d swallowed acid.

When he couldn’t sleep at all for the second night in the row, he concluded that they had to be drugging him. Something in the water. But surely Hissrad wouldn’t drug _himself_ by drinking all of Dorian’s water, would he? No. Probably not. Yes? Dorian felt like his mind was coming unraveled at the seams. He was losing his grip on reality; he _was_ paranoid, he _was_ stressed from the isolation, from struggling not to engage with Hissrad, the only person who ever talked to him. He was so alone and so _tired_ deep down in his bones.

The third night, he finally slept, but it only barely scraped the edge off his exhaustion. The fourth night he couldn’t sleep again, and he was starting to think Hissrad was right—there was something very wrong with him.

No. Hissrad wasn’t his friend. He didn’t care about him. He was his interrogator, and Dorian had stupidly spilled all sorts of details about his relationship with his father, of all things. Perhaps if he babbled about the inconsequential minutia of his life, Hissrad would believe he was deflecting from all those military secrets he didn’t actually know. That could work for a while, he supposed.

The darkness inside the prison block was complete—a thick, velvety blackness that seemed to crawl into his eyes. He couldn’t see his own hand waving in front of his face. Unlike the first couple nights, though, Dorian was now starting to full-on hallucinate, his sleep-deprived subconscious painting images onto the blank canvas of the dark. Were his eyes open? Was he dreaming? Did it matter? Maybe the kindly dancing wisps would entertain him with a story. He was so very glad to have their company; he’d thought he might die of boredom in this lonely cell.

When the door to the prison block clanked open, the light that spilled in from the hall beyond—dim though it was—came as a shock. Suddenly, he had a sense of space and distance again, shapes lurking in the dark: the table and chairs where Hissrad liked to sit, the black stripes of the bars at the front of his cell. The silhouette of a hulking Qunari as he strode down the center isle.

Dorian could tell it wasn’t Hissrad from the shape of the horns, and assumed it must be a guard. The Qunari entered his cell and crouched beside the pallet, and strong hands grabbed carelessly at him.

“Unhand me!” Dorian squawked indignantly.

At first, his exhausted mind assumed the Qunari was here to relocate him to a different cell, perhaps. It took long seconds for him to realize that the beast wasn’t trying to make him stand, long seconds to comprehend what the sound of claws ripping through his clothing meant. He struggled, limbs weak and uncoordinated from lack of sleep, heart hammering with a sudden flush of panic.

“No! I am an _altus_ , you can’t do this!” His mind scrabbled against his own disbelief—this wasn’t happening, no one would _dare_ , he’d fallen asleep and this was a terrible dream…

The Qunari pinned him face down on the pallet. The beast did not bother with preparation or oil, and the first thrust was nothing short of _burning agony_ in him. Dorian tried to squirm away from the pain, but the Qunari grabbed his arm and wrenched it back, joints screaming. Inside, he tore and bled, and he was pathetically grateful for how his own slick blood eased the way somewhat.

His thoughts spiraled. He had defied Halward and flaunted his deviance, and this was his punishment. He deserved it—to be hurt and humiliated and broken by the very thing he’d once wanted. _This is what happens to disrespectful little shits_ , his mother’s voice seemed to say.

He would need a healer after. Would they bother healing him? Would these savages let his injury become inflamed, let him die slowly of sepsis?

Perhaps if he concentrated, he could die of shame, instead.

When the Qunari finished, he simply left Dorian lying there, used up and discarded. The door to the cell block clanged shut, and he was plunged back into darkness.

Dorian lay still, afraid to move. Sharp pain lanced through his left shoulder each time he inhaled; the bone was still in the socket, but something must have torn. He tried not to think about his other injury. Hot fluids seeped out of him, and the sensation made his skin crawl. He heard someone crying, and it took a long time to realize the sounds were coming from himself.

He didn’t know how much time passed. Eventually, the light returned.

“Dorian? Oh _fuck_.” The rattle of a key in a lock, and then Hissrad was crouched beside the pallet. He growled low in his throat, and Dorian flinched. “This should _never_ have happened. When I find out who did this, they’re not gonna like the consequences.”

Dorian covered his head with his uninjured arm, humiliated and exposed. He’d made no attempt at adjusting his torn clothes for modesty, and Hissrad could surely see exactly what had been done to him.

“Is it all right if I touch you? I need to check how bad you’re hurt.”

Dorian nodded, though he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped when he felt Hissrad’s hands parting his arsecheeks.

“Don’t think you’ll need stitches. We’ll start with elfroot and see how that goes, okay?”

Hissrad very gently got him propped up, sitting on his right hip with Hissrad’s arm wrapped around his ribs to take most of his weight. Dorian couldn’t lift his left arm and his hands were shaking anyway, so Hissrad held the bottle of elfroot potion to his lips and helped him drink. The pain ebbed, sharpness dulling as the worst of the damage repaired itself in an accelerated rush of healing. His shallow, hitched breaths evened out as it became easier to draw air, but that just gave him room to start crying again.

Hissrad sat against the wall and maneuvered Dorian across his lap, holding him while he sobbed. His pelvic muscles cramped horribly, and his shoulder throbbed, and his imprisonment felt so overwhelmingly _real_ in that moment. As if the past twenty-two years were a dream, and this misery here was his whole life.

“I want Felix, I want to go _home_.” He felt a swell of shame at how he was whining and sniffling like a child, but he was so exhausted and his emotions were crashing like waves.

Hissrad’s hand rubbed comforting circles against his back. “Who’s Felix?”

“He’s my brother,” Dorian mumbled. It felt like the truth. “I want— I want—” he couldn’t get the words out, choking on air, on his own weakness, on his desperate broken need to be free of this horrid place before it swallowed his soul.

“Shh, shh, it’s all right. We’ll contact Felix and he’ll come get you, just as soon as you answer the questions. I promise.”

He sniffled and rubbed at his face with the side of his hand. “Okay.”

Then Dorian told him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my brain thinks "work from home under quarantine" means "write fanfic all day" so... here we are! Now I have to go do some actual work.
> 
> Thanks as always for the comments and kudos! It's super-motivating to hear that y'all are enjoying this.


	5. Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some potentially disturbing sexual imagery toward the end – skip the section in italics if you want to avoid it.

“Do you remember Tevinter?” Krem asked gently, as he sat with Saarebas on the steps in the ambassador’s office.

 _Tevinter_. The name felt like a spark of lightning in his mind, fractal slices of light all connected together, there and gone in a flash too quick to make sense of—hot sun on his face and a saddled horse between his knees; red wine, the glide of silk over skin, crystal laughter; the smell of old books late at night. He didn’t know what any of it signified.

Saarebas shook his head.

“We know you’re from there, because you understand me when I speak Tevene. So Ambassador Josephine sent for missing persons reports from Tevinter.” Krem paused. “I think this is you.”

He handed a sheet of paper to Saarebas. At first, the letters swam on the page like a school of fish. He’d been getting better at focusing, though (to be of use in besting Kithshok Cullen at chess) so he tried that now, and the words seemed to settle.

 _Gray eyes_ , the paper said, and _necromancy._ There were dates—9:11, 9:33—and for the first time, Saarebas realized he didn’t know what year it was, and that there was something strange about not knowing such a thing. There were names, too, a detailed account of who had seen him last and who had searched for him and who had filed the formal report, but the hardest name to look at was written in large script at the top.

**_Dorian Pavus_ **

It sent a shudder through his body, and he hunched up and tensed as if the name were a physical blow against which he could shield himself. Something _awful_ was happening inside him. The thing buried under the cairn in the back of his mind shifted, perked up, pressed against him with more force than it had in years. No, no—what had he done wrong to deserve this? He’d tried so hard to be a good thing, to pass all of Hissrad’s confusing tests and tricks, to follow the new rules even when they didn’t make sense. Why would Hissrad deliver him to such torture now? The name dug into his brain like a spade, destabilizing the earth upon which Saarebas was built.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Krem said, resting an arm over his shoulders; the physical contact felt strange, like it belonged to someone else. “This is good progress. The _Inquisition_ isn’t like your old unit. You need a name instead of a title, and now we know yours.”

Saarebas shook his head. This wasn’t good, it was dangerous. _They searched for me_ , the little voice said, fixating on the other names—Felix, Gereon, Halward, Aquinea. The voice sounded almost like his own, but he knew if he let it get too close it would bring with it nothing but unbearable pain. He had laid the stones and sealed it away for a reason. Allowing himself to remember this _Felix_ would be an exercise in cruelty; whoever they were, the person they were searching for was long gone.

The voice buried in the dark _screamed_ , echoes of its agony bleeding through, but he was _Saarebas_ —not Dorian, never Dorian. Saarebas was in control, because Saarebas knew how to survive. That was the way it had to be.

It seemed very important for someone else to understand, as if sharing this would somehow reify his perceptions into concrete truth. He ordered the words he wanted to say in his mind, and then curled his tongue silently around the Tevene syllables, practicing before he could build up the courage to force the words out.

“Dorian is gone,” he whispered to Krem. “I killed him.”

******

Cullen had meant to stay out of it, truly he had—chess every afternoon under Bull’s supervision, and then he would do his damnedest not to think about the saarebas the rest of the time. He certainly hadn’t intended to insert himself into the emotionally charged and frankly befuddling process of reintroducing the mage to his own identity.

The Iron Bull was swaying on his feet like he’d taken a mortal wound on the battlefield, and Cullen couldn’t fathom why the name _Dorian Pavus_ would have such an effect on him. He must have heard it before somewhere. Perhaps the Chargers had been offered a commission to rescue Dorian, and he’d turned down the job?

“Will you…” Bull struggled to get the words out. “Will you stay with them? I need a minute.”

“Of course,” the Commander agreed, watching him with open confusion.

Bull sucked in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and steadied himself enough to pin Cullen with a warning gaze. “I’m trusting you, Cullen. But I want to be clear about this. If you try to take advantage of Dorian, I will break your kneecaps.”

Cullen felt his face flush scarlet, and he clenched his jaw against the hot wave of humiliation. “I am perfectly capable of keeping my hands to myself, thank you.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

The Iron Bull stumbled out of the office, leaving Cullen behind to deal with… whatever this mess was. Dorian was still on the steps, hunched and trembling, and Josephine came over to gently remove the page from his hands and replace it with a steaming cup of tea. Krem stood and stepped away to speak with Cullen privately.

“Where the fuck did the Chief go?”

Cullen spread his hands, helpless to provide insight. “He needed air, apparently.”

Krem huffed and planted his fists on his hips. “Get this: the kid told me Dorian is dead. That he killed him.”

“But… he _is_ Dorian.”

“Not anymore, I guess.” He sighed. “A’right, if you and Josie can handle mage-sitting, I gotta go after the Chief and figure out what’s up.”

“You can’t leave him with me!” Cullen protested too quickly, and then it took him a moment of mental scrambling to come up with a reasonable excuse. “I—I’ll need to learn some Tevene first. Dorian shouldn’t be left with people who can’t communicate with him.”

Krem looked at him askance. “Of the two of us, you’re the one who was literally trained to watch mages all day long, like _professionally_. I’d say you’re more than qualified.”

He winced. “I left the Order for a reason, Krem.”

“Still. I dunno what the Chief even _does_ with him all day.”

As he mentally sorted through their options, Cullen pressed his tongue to the inside of his scarred lip. The damaged nerves left it feeling both numb and oversensitive at once, in a way that was difficult not to prod at. It was a bad habit, and he forced himself to stop before Josephine caught him doing it (again).

“Well… we now know he can read Tevene. Perhaps we can find something in the library to keep him occupied for a bit.”

Josephine joined them, a hint of sadness pulling at the corners of her mouth. “This was illuminating, if nothing else. I do believe it’s safe to say he’ll be in no condition to return to his homeland for quite some time.” Her idle fingers folded the missing person report in half, very precisely. “I’ve ordered translations of the relevant Tevinter legal texts from Val Royeaux. I think it best we prepare for the worst.”

Krem shot her a baffled look. “When in the last ten minutes did you sneak out and do that?”

Josephine smiled. “Two weeks ago, when the raven message arrived.”

“Oh. Right.”

Cullen’s Templar training tracked the motion as Dorian rose from his seat on the steps and slinked closer to them—not looking at anyone, not engaging, but clearly anxious to not be left behind.

“Come with me,” Cullen said, and when that merited no response, he shot an imploring look at Krem. “Um…?”

“ _Veni mecum_ ,” Krem supplied. “And I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

“ _Veni mecum,_ ” Cullen repeated to the mage.

With apparent relief, Dorian fell into step beside and a couple paces behind him. While Krem spoke to Josephine, they went out into the great hall and crossed to the rotunda. Cullen bit down on the inside of his cheek and did _not_ think about what an incredible turn-on it was to have the mage following obediently at his heels. He did _not_ speculate about how readily Dorian might comply with… _other_ types of orders.

The library, focus of the library. He would find something for the mage to read. The only part of Dorian which he had permission to _stimulate_ was his mind. (Oh Maker, just stop already.)

But as they crested the top the stairs and stepped within reach of the first bookshelves, something shifted. For better or worse, Cullen’s training left him highly attuned to the moods of mages, and he could practically taste fear on the air. Dorian froze, and then scrambled back into the shadow of the curved stairwell, whimpering and tucking his hands under his arms protectively. Cullen’s heart clenched; he _wished_ he couldn’t envision why the mage associated books with his hands getting hurt.

Up until now, he’d been very careful not to imagine all the ways the Qunari might have trained a mage into obedience, afraid such thoughts would only serve to fuel his twisted desires. But this sight gave him quite a different kind of arousal—rage, nigh uncontrollable rage, bloodlust rising in him like the dawn until he _shook_ with it. Yes, he wanted to do horrible things, but he wanted to do horrible things to the people who had hurt Dorian. He wanted to shove his thumbs into their eyesockets until he felt that sickening squish, take their bodies apart slowly while they begged for death…

He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled in a steadying breath, yanking hard on the reins of his fury. Later, he could demolish a training dummy or even find some bandits to bury his sword in, but he had to hold it together now. Two words of Tevene would be insufficient to explain that Cullen’s murderous rage was _for_ Dorian, not _at_ him.

When he was calm enough to soften his voice, he said “ _Veni mecum_ ,” and led the mage back down the stairs.

******

The Iron Bull sat on the rubble in the broken section of the ramparts, dangerously close to the edge. It was a good spot for being alone, partially concealed behind the curve of the main tower. A good spot for riding out a full-on existential crisis.

Everything that happened to the kid was Bull’s fault. Sure, he’d argued with the viddathiss that indoctrinating a human mage couldn’t—and shouldn’t—be done, but he was the interrogator who cracked open Dorian’s mind and let Viddathiss inside. Knowingly or not, he’d laid the groundwork for what came after.

Hissrad breathed his last breath on the Storm Coast, and all he had left now was this artificially constructed cover identity. But how could he truly _become_ the Iron Bull with the weight of Hissrad’s actions still hanging around his neck? The Iron Bull persona—loud, jovial, overprotective—would never have done what Hissrad did. He felt _sick_ just thinking about it.

What was he supposed to do now? If and when Dorian remembered, it would be the death of any trust between them. Nothing could mitigate such a depth of betrayal. Bull would have to rethink his focus, when it came to Dorian’s recovery—his new top priority would be shifting Dorian’s dependence onto other people. He needed to build up a support structure as quickly as possible, so when the shit started flying, the kid would have someone else to anchor him. And for that to be even remotely possible, Bull would need to convince the kid to actually _listen_ when Common was spoken, instead of tuning it out.

Dorian would have to get used to being alone some of the time, too. He would need a room of his own, preferably before he remembered the unforgivable events of their shared past. A frisson of something that felt suspiciously like panic swept over Bull—he didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the truth was, he’d been leaning almost as hard against Dorian as the kid was on him. Cut loose from the structure and purpose of the Qun, the Iron Bull had constructed his own purpose out of caring for the saarebas, and what the fuck was going to keep him sane when that, too, was gone?

Losing the mage would break him.

The sound of boots against stone interrupted his thoughts, but Bull didn’t look up from the cold, bleak mountain vista.

“There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere,” Cullen said, with unconcealed irritation. “Your mage is having a hard time of it, and you decided to… what, exactly? Slink away to stare at the scenery?”

“Leave it alone, Cullen. It’s not your concern.”

“If he were mine, I would never—”

“What did you just say?” Bull interrupted. He rose to his feet, which would have been a slightly more effective intimidation tactic if Cullen weren’t standing on the intact portion of the ramparts, for once looking down at him. “Dorian isn’t _property_ , he’s not a slave. He doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cullen backpedaled.

“Yeah, but it really was.”

Bull climbed up the rubble, his bad knee twinging. His steady, inexorable approach forced Cullen to step back from the edge to make room for him. The Commander’s cheeks were colored, and not from the wind. Bull hadn’t figured out what exactly was up with Cullen’s fetish for chained mages, and at the moment, he couldn’t care less.

“Lucky for everyone involved, Dorian will _never be yours_ ,” he growled.

He left the Commander standing there, gaping like a fish, and went to find his saarebas.

******

Bull eased the changes into their routine as gently as he could. He started mixing some Common in with the Qunlat when he spoke, and he gave Dorian explicit instructions to try to listen for the meaning in both languages. He found more excuses to leave Dorian in the care of the Chargers for an hour or two. And the afternoon chess matches continued.

As much as Bull might be actively suppressing the urge to punch Cullen in the dick, he was reluctantly forced to admit that Dorian responded to the Commander more readily than he did to almost anyone else, save himself and Krem. There were even times when it seemed Dorian was struggling to glean the content from Cullen’s words, instead of his usual routine of stubbornly ignoring the Trade tongue.

Something else was changing, too: when they went down to the baths, Bull would often catch Dorian staring at himself in one of the mirrors hung over the wash basins. The first time, he tentatively touched the glass, as if not quite believing he was seeing his own reflection. But soon it became a routine. Bull would carefully run the straight-razor over the kid’s face—giving him the kind of nice, close shave he rarely bothered with for himself—and when he was smooth and patted dry, Dorian would gaze into the glass as he ran his fingers over his features, relearning his own appearance. Then he’d don his black Orlesian mask with the air of a noble putting on finery, or so it seemed to Bull.

He could swear there was some Tevinter left in this ‘Vint, and it made his chest feel too small to contain his heart.

******

Saarebas sat on the floor in front of the fireplace in Hissrad’s chamber. It was a cold morning, and Hissrad had told him to stay in the room while he ran drills out in the practice yard with the karataam. Being left alone felt odd and disquieting, as if all the stillness and silence that was supposed to exist in Saarebas’s mind was now on the outside, instead. His thoughts were too loud and the room was too empty.

Saarebas held the black mask in his hands and stared at it, thoughts churning. The mask was lovely—sleek and elegant, understated yet dramatic. Something Dorian would have liked… which was exactly what made it so dangerous. The mask whispered cruel promises, tempted him with impossible dreams, made him yearn to be Dorian again. But that could never, _ever_ happen. The weight of everything he’d endured was too heavy, it would _crush_ Dorian. He should leave Dorian in the past, try to forget him once more. He was not a beautiful man, he was a dangerous weapon, and a sword has no desires.

He knew his place. The Qun had no use for Dorian. One last sacrifice for the sake of survival, and he would be content in his purpose again. He leaned forward and tossed the mask into the lit fireplace.

Almost immediately, panic constricted his chest as he watched the flames devouring the hardened black leather. Oh no, no, what was he thinking? He wanted take it back, snuff out the fire and save the mask, but it was too late—everything always too late to save. He felt as if he were watching his own soul turn to ash, as if he’d just destroyed his last chance, condemned himself to this barren half-existence.

Dorian and all his terrible feelings were supposed to be buried behind stone, but they were seeping through, flooding Saarebas’s precious empty spaces with unwanted pain. He was filled with overwhelming grief for himself, and wracked with bitter, wretched despair. Hugging his legs to his chest, he tucked his face against his knees and bawled his eyes out.

Everything was ashes.

******

The knock on his office door struck Cullen as unusual; he was accustomed to guards on watch and message runners coming and going through his space with little more than a nod or a salute as they passed. It wasn’t rudeness but simple necessity, given the layout of the keep. Far from irritated, Cullen actually found it rather comforting—it made him feel as if he had his finger on the pulse of Skyhold, and he needed that reassurance after everything he’d missed seeing in Kirkwall.

“Come in,” he called, frowning slightly.

The door opened to admit the Iron Bull. “Commander, you got a sec?”

“How can I help you?” Cullen said smoothly. He held no grudge about their argument; Bull had said nothing that wasn’t true. Still, he wished he was wearing his armor instead of just a tunic and trousers right now—the steel plate would have made him feel somewhat less exposed to Bull’s scrutiny.

Bull, however, did not look like he was working his way up to a diatribe, but rather working up to requesting a favor. After a reluctant pause, he said, “Dorian needs a new mask, and I think it would be best if you gave it to him again.”

“What happened to the black one?”

“He threw it in the fireplace.”

Cullen’s heart sank. “I thought he liked it.”

“He loved it.” Bull sighed. “It made him feel pretty, made him feel like a person. That’s why he thought he had to destroy it. But then he cried for hours and now I can’t get him to eat. Dalish is watching him in case he tries to…” He looked away and swallowed, unwilling or unable to say it. “Well. You know.”

“Right.” Cullen did indeed know—all too well. He grabbed a coin purse from a drawer in his desk and stood. “Your chamber, I presume? I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Cullen took the stairs down to the marketplace set up in the lower courtyard. He purchased a domino mask decorated with rich, purple satin from Bonny Sims—it was ludicrously expensive even after he bartered her down a bit, but that hardly mattered if the mage was in crisis. Cullen carried the gift box with the mask in it directly to the tavern and knocked on Bull’s door.

The Iron Bull let him in with a nod that was somehow both grim and grateful. But Cullen’s focus shifted immediately to Dorian—the mage sat on the floor with his knees hugged to his chest, looking about as wrung out as a rag.

Cullen knelt in front of Dorian, moving slowly so as not to spook him. Then he opened the gift box and set it on the floor, sliding the box to intercept the mage’s line of sight. “That’s for you.”

Dorian didn’t move, yet Cullen could tell the mask caught his awareness, Templar-trained senses picking up on some shift in demeanor so subtle he couldn’t say what exactly it was he observed. A slight tension, perhaps, or a change in his breathing.

“ _Audi me_ , Dorian,” Cullen said, using another phrase he’d picked up from Krem to hook the mage’s attention. “I will give you a hundred masks. You are so beautiful, and I will just keep giving you beautiful things until you understand you deserve it.”

Dorian made a small, broken sound in his throat. Then he climbed into Cullen’s lap and hugged him.

Shit, _shit_ , the mage was finally in his arms and Cullen’s rational thought was shorting out. He wanted to pick Dorian up and _run_ , just fucking steal him and keep him forever. Every inch of contact between their bodies felt like fire against his skin—it had been so long, _so long_ since he let anyone touch him outside the practice ring. The sweet mage was straddling his lap, arms wrapped around Cullen’s neck, and it would be so easy to…

No. _I am made of stone_ , he told himself. His hands couldn’t wander because he was a damned statue, all his joints locked in position. But that mental trick did nothing to stop the blood flow to his aching cock, which the mage could surely feel.

Dorian rocked his hips suggestively, arse rubbing against Cullen’s erection, and Cullen just about _lost his mind_.

At that point, Bull stepped in. “All right, none of that, no humping the poor Commander. That’s not how we show our gratitude.” He switched to Qunlat and kept talking as he tucked his hands beneath Dorian’s arms and firmly lifted him off Cullen’s lap.

A small, bereft whine tried to escape Cullen’s throat, but he strangled the sound. He was shaking from the effort of holding himself under control. He leaned forward on his hands, taking deep breaths, willing his body to calm the fuck down.

“How you doing there, Cullen?”

“Fantastic,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “This isn’t at all mortifying.” He was on hands and knees on the Bull’s floor with a throbbing erection trapped in his trousers. The pressure of Dorian’s hug remained like a ghost against his chest, and it made his eyes sting with unshed tears. Cullen knew he was a revolting monster who wanted impossible things, and what if that was the last time anyone touched him _in his life?_

“Hey. Seriously. You all right?” Bull crouched beside him, and that genuine concern made it all so much worse.

“Don’t… fucking… _condescend_.” Cullen stumbled to his feet. “I’m not one of your broken-winged birds, Bull. Go collect someone else for your little flock.”

He stormed out onto the ramparts, furious at his own weakness, and at Bull for seeing it.

******

_“You seem distracted, Commander.”_

_Cullen sat in the gazebo across from Bull, the chessboard set between them. It was, indeed, incredibly difficult to focus on the game with Dorian crouched naked under the table, sucking Cullen’s cock._

_He reached down and yanked on the mage’s hair, and Dorian’s mouth came off his cock with an obscene pop. The chess table conveniently vanished out of his way, so Cullen could drag the naked mage up into his lap. He seated Dorian facing away, spread open for Bull to see._

_“No, please,” Dorian protested weakly, pushing against Cullen’s hands to little effect. “You can’t fuck me while he’s watching.”_

_Cullen chuckled and stroked Dorian’s erection, Bull’s implacable one-eyed gaze following the motion. Then he lined up his cock and pulled Dorian onto himself, sinking into the welcoming heat of the mage’s arse. Dorian whimpered and squirmed, trying to get away at first, but soon the pleasure took over, and he was writhing as he fucked himself on Cullen’s shaft._

_“Do you see?” Cullen gloated at Bull. “He’s mine now.”_

_Cullen looked down and saw his cock was slicked with Dorian’s blood, and the thought that he was hurting Dorian flooded him with uncontrollable lust._ No, stop, _but he couldn’t stop, he just fucked Dorian harder._

_The mage went suspiciously quiet. Cullen took Dorian’s head in his hand and turned it far enough to glimpse his face: there was a Tranquil brand on his forehead. Cullen felt like he’d been punched in the gut._

_“No! Who did this to you, Dorian?”_

_“You did,” he said, with the perfect, uncaring calm of the Tranquil. “Now I’m yours forever.”_

_Cullen tried to scream, but his body wasn’t listening to his commands anymore. He was wickedly, impossibly aroused, thrusting as hard as he could. He wanted to fuck Dorian to death, he wanted to murder the mage with his cock while Bull just sat there and watched._

_(Bull didn’t look quite right anymore—his skin had a purple tint, and his horns were the wrong shape.)_

_As he came inside the Tranquil with an explosive burst of pleasure, Cullen managed to exert just enough control to moan, “No…”_

_“Why are you complaining?” not-Bull said. “This is exactly what you want.”_

Cullen lurched into wakefulness and just barely managed to scramble to the edge of the bed before emptying him stomach into the waiting chamberpot he always kept nearby for nights like these. He lay there, half-hanging off the side of the bed, breathing through the residual nausea. And _ugh_ , his smalls were wet and sticky with seed from coming in his sleep like a bloody teenager. It didn’t quite seem fair that he’d have to kneel in the Chantry tomorrow, reciting benedictions in penance for something that happened in his sleep.

That dream was hardly the worst thing the Fade had ever thrown at him. He’d spent the past decade as a subject of significant fascination for desire demons, who poked at his mind with endless, ruthless curiosity while he slept. The lyrium withdrawal certainly wasn’t helping matters, though. And this was the first time he’d dreamed of Dorian like that.

Cullen pushed himself up to sit on the edge of his bed and ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. What had he been thinking, allowing himself to get close to the mage? That was playing with fire; he had to put a stop to it before things spiraled out of control. It would be far better for everyone involved if he kept his distance from now on.

He was Uldred’s monster, and he always would be. He couldn’t afford to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned how to conjugate the Latin imperative just for you guys! Now that’s love.


	6. The Correction Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: some consensual NSFWness here, but this also ends up in Broken Circle territory, so strap in for some horror—blood magic mind control, torture, rape/non-con, and minor character death.
> 
> If you’re not here for that, I’ll leave a quick summary in the endnotes and you can skip to the next Skyhold section. This is part of Cullen’s backstory, but you should be able to read the present-day storyline without it.

_9:29, Templar training facility at Bournshire Monastery, Ferelden_

Cullen’s first time was with his best friend.

Alistair had been talking all week about the upcoming tourney to honor the Commander of the Grey, and Cullen had a sinking feeling about the outcome his friend was hoping for. Alistair should have taken his vows already but had been dragging his heels about it; Cullen, a year younger, was champing at the bit to take _his_. It made him _so angry_ to think that Alistair wanted to leave the Order, wanted to leave _Cullen_.

So when he caught Alistair wanking in the baths late one night, he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. He shucked his clothes, climbed into the bath behind Alistair, and wrapped his arm tight around his friend’s throat. While Alistair’s hands flew to his arm, fingers digging in, Cullen reached down with his other hand and viciously pumped Alistair’s cock. His own prick was so hard he felt like he might explode, and he rutted against the small of Alistair’s back as he jerked him off. They both came, one right after the other, in a chorus of filthy moans, and nothing had ever felt so good.

Afterward, as they climbed out of the bath, they stared at each other with wide eyes.

“Wow, you’re just full of surprises,” Alistair joked, always one to make light of any situation.

Cullen felt nauseated. “I…” What could he possibly say— _I’m sorry I forced myself on you_? What was _wrong_ with him that he’d do something like that to his friend? He fled the room without another word.

They never talked about what he’d done in the baths. Alistair joined the Wardens, and Cullen took his vows. It was a stupid teenage mistake, and it would never happen again.

******

Cullen’s mouth went dry when Knight-Commander Greagoir handed him the flogger.

“You want me to _what_ , ser?”

“You’ve developed a nice, friendly rapport with the apprentices, and that’s fine,” the Knight-Commander explained. “But you also have to learn how to discipline them.”

Cullen was eighteen and he was trying very hard not to get an erection in front of his superior officer. He nodded mutely, cleared his throat, cleared his throat _again_ , and managed to croak out, “Yes, ser.”

******

The first time he bruised up Alim’s back with the flogger, he couldn’t even make it back to the barracks afterward. He sent the mage on his way, then barred the door of the Correction Room and furiously beat off to the vivid memory of how the tails sounded as they slapped against bare flesh, the soft exhalations the pretty elf boy made with each strike.

Alim got in trouble again barely a week later. When he pulled off his robes and faced the wall, Cullen saw the bruising from his first beating hadn’t quite faded, and the sight of that lingering evidence had him halfway to a raging hard-on before he even lifted the flogger. The mage didn’t voice a single word of protest at the threat of being flogged again so soon, he just braced his hands against the wall and stood ready to take the punishment. His obedience did nothing helpful for Cullen’s state of arousal.

Cullen laid into the mage with the flogger, setting an almost hypnotic pace. Alim breathed with the rhythm of the strikes, as if he’d ceded control of his very _lungs_ to Cullen _._ Keeping count, Cullen paused at fifteen strokes to check the progress of his handiwork; it wouldn’t do to break the skin.

“Oooh,” Alim moaned. “Fuck me, Ser Cullen, _please_.”

Cullen’s brain screeched to a halt. “What?”

Alim turned away from the wall and looked at him, but Cullen’s eyes dropped to the erection that was in no way hidden by the thin tights apprentices wore under their robes. It made no sense to him why Alim would be turned on right now, but all the blood in Cullen’s body was flowing south, and did it really matter why?

Alim’s lips curved up into a playful smile. “Make me sorry, Ser.”

That was all the invitation Cullen required, and he scrambled to remove his gauntlets, a jumble of desires already swimming through his thoughts. He yanked down on Alim’s tights, exposing the elf, then pressed two fingers against Alim’s mouth and ordered, “Open.” He complied. “Suck.”

Alim stared at him with blown pupils as he sucked on Cullen’s fingers, doing something absolutely _wicked_ with his tongue that very nearly made Cullen come in his smalls. Instead, he pulled out his moistened fingers and circled behind the elf, then reached down and teased at Alim’s hole.

“A beating’s not enough for you, Apprentice?”

Alim rocked back against his hand. “Punish me, Ser Cullen, punish me! I’ve been a very naughty boy.”

Cullen pushed his fingers inside, making Alim shout. He pumped his fingers in and out of the elf’s tight arsehole and wrapped his other hand around Alim’s shaft. “This is what happens to naughty little mages,” Cullen growled in his ear.

“Oh, no!” Alim squirmed ecstatically under his touch.

It was a heady feeling, being so totally in control of someone else’s body—their pain, their pleasure. He squeezed Alim’s prick just this side of too tight, and the elf let out a mewling sound of tortured arousal that nearly _undid_ him. Cullen played with Alim relentlessly, twisting fingers inside his arse, teasing the sensitive head of his cock, until Alim came all over Cullen’s hand.

“Now look at the mess you’ve made, Apprentice.” He held his hand to Alim’s face. “Clean it up.”

Alim locked gazes with him as he licked his own come off Cullen’s fingers. Then the elf dropped to his knees, and after some frantic rearranging of Templar robes, Cullen’s cock was _in someone’s mouth_ for the first time. By that point, he was so turned on it was only a matter of seconds before Cullen was blowing his load down the elf’s warm throat.

******

It took Cullen an embarrassingly long time to figure out that Alim was deliberately breaking the rules when Cullen was on duty because he _wanted_ to get flogged.

The giveaway was the day Alim arrived for his punishment with a small bottle of scented oil hidden in one fist. He handed it to Cullen before they began and said, “It’ll be more enjoyable for both of us if your cock is nice and slick when you fuck me against the wall.”

So Cullen lost whatever remained of his virginity in the Correction Room, with the flogger still in his hand so he could smack it against the side of Alim’s thigh while he thrusted vigorously into the tight, mind-blowing heat of the mage’s body.

After that, their misappropriation of the Correction Room became a regular occurrence. When he was standing around on guard duty with little else to think about, Cullen did worry that they ought to be more discreet—their arrangement would certainly not be allowed to continue if it was discovered what they were doing. (But they were a couple of teenage boys with _very_ compatible desires locked in an isolated stone tower together. Risk or no, they humped like nugs.)

Knight-Commander Greagoir, in all his stuffy piousness, actually _praised_ Cullen for taking such an active interest in the behavior modification of “that troublemaker.” Cullen did an admirable job of _not_ swallowing his own tongue, managed a curt nod, and fled the Knight-Commander’s office with his face practically _on fire._ If anyone’s behavior was getting modified, it was Cullen’s, as Alim steadily requested new elements added to their sessions.

Alim would nip playfully at Cullen’s jaw and say, “Today I want you to fuck me while I’m begging you to stop.” And Cullen would groan, just the _idea_ enough to make his prick twitch with interest. The fact that he’d actually get to do it was _unbelievable_.

This gorgeous elf with the dirty mind was going to be the death of him.

******

“Would you really have struck me down?” Alim stared up at him, those sharp blue eyes unblinking, a hint of dark amusement hidden in the twitch of his lips.

They were in the hall outside the junior enchanters’ dormitory, the day after Alim’s Harrowing. Talking to Alim in public reduced Cullen to a stammering, blushing mess as he tried to act normal and not let his mind wander. Outside their play sessions, Alim was an intensely confident young man, utterly self-assured and unashamed, and he seemed to find it entertaining how easy it was to turn Cullen into an embarrassed wreck with a single smoldering look.

“I—I, um, I’d have felt terrible about it.” Cullen was scrambling to find the words he _ought_ to say, knowing their conversation might be overheard. “But… but I serve the Chantry, and I’ll do as I am commanded.”

“Mm.” Alim nodded sagely. “That must be difficult, following orders. Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere—you can explain to me all about _obedience_.”

Cullen mind went straight to the gutter, just as the elf intended, and he felt his face flaming with embarrassment. “You’ll pay for that later,” he muttered under his breath.

Alim smirked. “Oh, I do hope so, Ser.”

******

When Uldred’s blood mages captured Cullen alive, they all agreed it would be highly amusing to lock him in the Correction Room.

They stripped him of weapons and armor, left him in nothing but the breeches and linen shirt worn under the templar robes; they even took his boots, and with them the small knife he kept tucked against his right ankle. Cullen had never in his life felt so helpless. He shook with the horror of what he’d witnessed—so many dead, so much twisted carnage. Ser Bran, impaled on a rage demon’s claws right before his eyes. Some of his brothers-at-arms were reduced to unrecognizable piles of gore, while others, like Ser Drass, were possessed or enthralled or driven insane.

That was to be his fate, Cullen realized. Those blood-mage abominations kept him alive so they could play with him. Break his mind at their leisure. His end would be neither quick nor merciful.

When Uldred himself came for a visit, terror burned in Cullen’s nostrils like smoke from a fire. One of the lackeys thrust another prisoner forward, and Cullen saw it was _Alim_ who stumbled into the room; he quickly grabbed the mage swung him behind himself, using his own body as a shield between Alim and Uldred. Armor or no, he was still a Templar and he would _die_ protecting his charges from the corruption of blood magic.

Uldred watched this with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “That mage is a collaborator and must be punished for his misplaced sympathies.”

“Go to the Void, you mad bastard,” Cullen growled.

A paralysis spell hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, and he fell to his knees, muscles locking up as he fought against the magic’s hold on his body. Instinctively, Cullen reached for a Cleanse, but his veins were long since dry of lyrium, every drop of power already spent in the initial battle.

“You’re going to fuck him until he weeps. But before we get started, you’re going to thank your master for this gift I’m giving you.” Uldred yanked down on the collar of Cullen’s shirt, exposing his left shoulder, and Cullen gritted his teeth against the pain as the mage carved a short vertical cut into his flesh. Hot blood welled and trickled down his back, soaking into his shirt and making the linen stick to him. But then the pain faded in importance as Uldred cast with his blood, and the thralldom hooked its claws into his mind.

 _Thank you, Master,_ he wanted to say. _Thank you thank you thank you_ —it was all he could think about, he was so horrifyingly grateful to his master Uldred, oh he wanted, he wanted to say it _so bad_ …

Cullen clamped his jaw shut, clenched his teeth, pressed his lips together. The words crawled up his throat into his mouth like sharp-legged spiders, scratching to get out. Cullen exhaled all the air from his lungs through his nose and held his breath so he physically couldn’t speak. Dark spots smeared his vision as his lungs burned. He would make himself _pass out_ before he submitted to blood magic.

Uldred kicked him in the ribs and the shock shattered his control. He gasped in a deep breath and immediately muttered, “Thank you, Master.” Cullen groaned with the misery of his failure. “No. I won’t let you control me.”

Uldred tucked a finger under Cullen’s chin and tilted his head up, and he found he couldn’t resist. The blood mage smiled. “You want to fuck the elf until he weeps.”

A terrible, irresistible lust coursed through him. He choked on an undignified noise as his cock hardened impossibly fast. Oh, how he wanted to fuck the elf, he wanted to fuck him so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to hear the elf sob and cry for mercy. In some distant, intellectual way, he understood that this wasn’t _his_ desire, that it was being forced on him through blood magic. But it still felt real—a deep, fundamental _want_ that was somehow both uncontrollable and his own.

Alim didn’t struggle as Cullen pulled him to the floor and ripped off his leggings. But the elf’s eyes glittered with hate as he glared at Uldred. “I’m going to enjoy it. Cullen is mine, and you’ll _never_ have him the way I do.”

“We’ll see,” Uldred replied, with an ominous hint of annoyance.

Alim wove his fingers through Cullen’s hair, a gesture of soft comfort, and Cullen whimpered. He wanted to speak, but Uldred had not given him permission to use words. Alim was pinned under him, and Cullen quivered with the effort of holding himself back, the _want_ burning in him like acid in his veins.

 _I can’t, there’s no oil,_ the rational corner of his mind protested, and his desire replied, _Good._

The compulsion crushed his resolve, and Cullen grabbed Alim’s hips and pushed inside. He could feel Alim trying to relax, but it was too much, too fast and the magic made Cullen brutal; soon his cock was slicked with Alim’s blood as he fucked the elf with deliberate, cruel carelessness.

 _I’m sorry,_ Cullen wanted to say, and couldn’t.

Alim let out a purposefully loud moan of pleasure. It was fake—after months as his lover, Cullen knew him inside and out, all the sounds he made and what acts would elicit them—but the goal wasn’t to convince Cullen. Alim was just refusing to let Uldred win. This went on for long enough that Uldred grew bored and left them, but even then, Cullen couldn’t stop until he fulfilled his command.

Alim ran gentle, soothing fingers over Cullen’s face and shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Cullen shook off his touch and leaned back, still plunging viciously into him. It made Cullen feel sick to have his lover worrying over him while he was hurting Alim without his consent. He didn’t deserve sympathy. Alim should hate him for this, be disgusted with him, just as Cullen was disgusted with himself for not being strong enough to resist.

Alim’s wide blue eyes turned glassy and moist. “Please answer me, love.”

No one had ever called Cullen that before, and to hear it now under such circumstances felt like Alim was jabbing a dagger into his heart.

“Cullen, Cullen please, give me a sign you’re still in there.”

Alim’s tears started running down his cheeks in earnest; to Cullen’s horror, nothing had _ever_ turned him on so much, and he came in a hard, hot flash of pleasure, getting off on Alim weeping just as Uldred commanded. Mission complete.

Cullen pulled out as soon as the blood magic released its hold on his mind, a cry of despair escaping his throat. He tried to move away from Alim, horrified at what he’d done to him, but his mage wasn’t having any of it; Alim wrapped his limbs around Cullen and held him close.

“Shh, it’s not your fault. I know it was the spell.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen sobbed into his shoulder, his whole body shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t crying because you hurt me,” Alim said. He took Cullen’s face in his hands. “I cried cuz I got scared that you’d be stuck like that—enthralled—and I’d never get my Cullen back. But you’re here now, you’re _you_. It’s over.”

Alim kissed him, tender and bittersweet. Cullen felt like his heart had been turned to glass and thrown from the top of the tower.

“Oh, Alim.” He shook his head and clung to the elf while he still could. “It’s not over.”

******

They took Alim away again, as Cullen had known they would, and for three days he didn’t know if the other boy still lived. Uldred brought him Senior Enchanter Leorah, now branded a loyalist for the high crime of refusing demonic possession, despite a research career spent _avoiding_ politics. Uldred carved another line into Cullen’s shoulder, and Cullen dutifully raped the Senior Enchanter—choked her, slapped her, hurt her however his master pleased. What Uldred wanted, Cullen wanted. Until the thralldom wore off, and he was left alone with the memory of what he’d done.

Another time, Uldred brought him Ser Willem. Ser Willem, and a maul. In a way, this was better; at least Uldred didn’t feel the need to make Cullen orgasm while he shattered all the bones in Willem’s hands.

When they brought Alim back to him, Cullen felt a dizzying swell of relief that the mage was still alive. Alim was weak—they threw him on the floor, and he stayed down—but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Cullen’s momentary joy curdled into nauseous terror as Uldred entered the Correction Room. Alim wasn’t safe; Alim was trapped in a room with the monster Cullen had become.

Cullen shucked his shirt and knelt facing Alim, his shoulder bare with its tally of half-healed wounds. Perhaps it would amuse Uldred if he didn’t fight it; perhaps the madman would be satisfied if Cullen broke himself, instead of breaking Alim.

“So eager, are we! Today you’re going to fuck the elf.”

“As you wish, Master,” Cullen forced the words out while his hands went to the laces on his breeches.

“No. Today you’re going to fuck him with this.” Uldred tossed a blunt-edged practice sword on the floor beside Alim. Cullen stared at it, frozen in horror. Uldred smiled. “Do you understand, Ser Rutherford? You’re going to shove the sword up his arse until he stops moving.”

Alim’s eyes went wide with panic. “No no no, please! Master, please, have mercy!” Gone was the defiance he’d shown only days ago.

Uldred’s smile only grew. A little knife sliced into Cullen’s shoulderblade, and blood oozed down his back in a slow runnel, the fingers of Uldred’s empty hand dancing in the air as he cast. Cullen’s cock went hard almost instantly as irrepressible, fervid lust flooded into him. He was drunk with it, he was on fire, he could think of nothing but fulfilling the desire Uldred gave him. It was getting harder and harder to resist each time, as the blood magic progressively ate away at his mind.

Cullen reached for the sword.

“What do you say, Cullen?” Uldred’s voice took on a sing-song quality.

“Thank you, Master,” he answered mechanically.

“Cullen, stop! You have to fight it! I know you’re strong enough to fight it,” Alim pleaded, trying to squirm away, even though there was nowhere to go.

Cullen caught Alim by the ankle, dragged him closer, held him down while he cried and begged for his life. There was blood and screaming. The sword had no edge, and it took longer than he expected to finish the task.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Cullen’s breeches were wet with spent seed; he’d gotten off on it, the way his master intended. As the blood magic loosened its grip on his mind, a broken sob bubbled out of him.

Then Uldred cut him again and made him fuck the corpse, so he could “feel what you’ve done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: In the Ferelden Circle, young Cullen starts a consensual D/s relationship with Alim, an apprentice mage. When Kinloch falls, Uldred turns Cullen into a blood thrall and forces him to get off on killing Alim.


End file.
